SONGS  &  STORIES 

FROM 

TENNESSEE 


JOHN  TROTWOOD  MOORE 


"  LITTLE  JAKE.' 


SoNGSANoSlORIES 


FROM 


TENNESSEE. 


BY 

JOHN  TROTWOOD  MOORE, 

AUTHOR  OF  "  A  SUMMER  HYMNAL." 


ILLUSTRATED  BY  HOWARD  WEEDEN 
AND  ROBERT  DICKEY. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

HENRY   T.   COATES  &   CO., 
1903. 


COPYRIGHT,  1897,  BY 
JOHN  TKOTWOOD  MOORE. 

COPYRIGHT,  1902,  BY 
HENRY  T.  COATES  &  Co. 


PREFACE. 

r~pHIS  is  a  very  large  world,  and  so  I  have  not 
*  tried  to  cover,  in  this  little  book,  any  very 
great  portion  of  it ;  but  have  contented  myself 
in  a  faithful  endeavor  to  describe,  truthfully,  life 
as  it  has  been,  and  is,  in  the  Middle  Basin  of 
Tennessee — the  Blue  Grass  Plot  of  the  State. 

And  this  spot  is  rich  in  history  and  tradition — 
so  rich  that  for  years  I  fretted  because  no  gifted 
one  of  its  citizens  would  arise  and  tell  to  the 
world,  in  story  and  in  song,  the  earnest  life,  the 
sweet  simplicity,  the  matchless  beauty,  the  un- 
published glory  of  its  land  and  its  folk.  And 
when  none  arose,  week  after  week,  without  a 
thought  that  what  was  hastily  written  for  an 
obscure  department  of  a  country  paper  would 
be  found  worthy  of  compilation,  I  have  only 
attempted  to  do  what  a  greater  one  should  have 
done. 


To  those  who  will  read  this  book,  the  author 
begs  them  to  bear  in  mind  that  he  does  not  claim 
for  these  little  peoples  of  his  brain  any  great 
amount  of  genius  or  originality.  But  he  does 
claim  that,  though  decked  in  homespun  and 
homeliness,  they  are  the  faithful  little  children  of 
their  own  bright  land,  the  truthful  representa- 
tives of  the  one  dear  spot,  fresh  from  the  fields 
and  the  forests,  the  paddocks  and  the  pens  of  the 
Middle  Basin. 

It  is  customary  with  some  authors  to  dedicate 
their  books  to  others.  To  my  father,  Judge 
John  Moore,  and  my  mother,  Emily  Adelia  Bil- 
lingslea,  both  of  whom  yet  live  in  the  old  home 
at  Marion,  Alabama,  I  dedicate  this,  an  un- 
finished tribute  of  my  love  and  honor,  a  half- 
expressed  token  of  the  gratitude  I  owe  them. 

JOHN  TROTWOOD  MOORE. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

The  Basin  of  Tennessee, i 

Ole  Mistis, 10 

Miss  Kitty's  Fun'ral, 48 

The  Wolf  Hunt  on  Big  Bigby 78 

Gray  Gamma, 86 

The  Mule  Race  at  Ashwood 98 

The  Tennessee  Girl  and  the  Pacing  Mare,.        .        .     103 

"Dick," no 

Nora, 131 

The  Spelling  Match  at  Big  Sandy,  .  .  .  .138 
How  Robert  J.  Broke  the  Record,  .  .  .  -144 

How  Old  Wash  Sold  the  Filly, 149 

How  Old  Wash  Captured  a  Gun,  .  .  .  -157 
Br'er  Washington's  Arraignment,  ....  163 
A  Cavalry  Drill  in  Old  Tennessee,  .  .  .  -175 

The  True  Singer, 191 

How  the  Bishop  Broke  the  Record,     ....     194 

First  Monday  in  Tennessee, 202 

Yesterday, 214 

The  Juliet  of  the  Grasses, 217 

Hal  Pointer  on  Memorial  Day, 224 

Sam  Davis, 231 

The  Lily  of  Fort  Custer, 240 

The  Flag  of  Green's  Brigade, 256 

By  the  Little  Big-Horn 258 


Contents 

PAGE 

Thoroughbreds, 26j 

"Wearing  the  Gray," 2<55 

The  Bells  of  Atlanta, 267 

The  Tennesseean  to  the  Flag, 272 

Tennessee, 274 

To  a  Wild  Rose  on  an  Indian  Grave,         .        .        .  279 

The  Blue-Grass  Plot, 281 

To  a  Sweet  Pea, 283 

The  Hills, 2g 

To  a  Mocking-Bird  in  the  Pine-Top,  .        .        .        .286 

A  Harvest  Song, 2gg 

The  Old  Meadow  Spring, 2QI 

Sleeping, 2  , 

To  the  Spirit  of  May, 294 

Clouds 296 

Sunset  on  the  Tennessee, 206 

Morning, 2q7 

Under  the  Pines, 2Qg 

The  Music  of  the  Pines, 2gq 

The  Evening  Star, ,02 

To  a  Morning  Glory, ,02 

The  Summer  of  Long  Ago, ,03 

Truth  in  Beauty, ,0- 

The  Faith  of  Old 307 

Christmas  Morn, ,co 

Alone' 309 

To  Whittier,  Dead, 310 

The  Church  of  the  Heart, 3II 

The  Christ-Star  has  Risen 3I-, 

A  Memory, , 


Contents 

PAGE 

Eulalee, 314 

A  Morning  Ride, 314 

Immortality, 316 

Life's  Christmas, 317 

Beauty, 318 

It  Can  Not  Be, 319 

A  Little  Cry  in  the  Night, 320 

Tis  But  a  Dream, 321 

The  Pines  of  Monterey, 322 

To  an  American  Boy, 323 

Our  Bob, 324 

To  Burns, 325 

Work  Through  it  All, 326 

Mollie, 327 

O  Voices  that  Long  Ago  Left  Me,      ....  328 

A  Ray  from  Calvary, 329 

Marjorie, 329 

Blue  Jay, 332 

Success, 335 

When  the  Colts  are  in  the  Ring,         ....  336 

Fair  Times  in  Old  Tennessee, 338 

The  Rabbit  Trap, 339 

"  Huntin' o' the  Quail," 341 

When  de  Fat  am  on  de  Possum,         ....  344 

Little  Sam, 345 

Lettie, 347 

The  Old  Plantation, 349 

Reconciliation, 351 

Longin'  fur  Tennessee, 352 

Wonderful  Men, 355 


INTRODUCTION. 


THE  BASIN  OF  TENNESSEE. 

THE  Middle  Basin  is  the  dimple  of  the  Uni- 
verse. 

About  equal  in  area  to  Lake  Ontario — nearly 
6000  square  miles — situated  in  Middle  Tennessee 
and  surrounded  by  the  Highland  Rim,  it  is  one 
of  those  peculiar  geological  formations  made  long 
ago  when  the  earth  was  young.  In  altitude,  but 
little  higher  than  the  first  plateau  beyond  the 
Mississippi  ;  in  shape,  oval  and  symmetrical  as 
the  tapering  turn  of  an  egg  shell  cut  lengthwise  ; 
in  depth,  from  500  to  1000  feet — deep  enough  to 
break  the  force  of  the  wind,  and  yet  high  enough 
to  concentrate,  as  by  a  focus,  the  slanting  sun- 
beams and  the  shadows. 

Away  back  in  the  past  it  was  once  the  bed  of 
a  silver  shining  lake.  But  whether  its  waves 
boiled  beneath  a  torrid  sun,  lashed  into  foam  by 
saurian  battles,  or  whether  glacial  icebergs  sunk 
their  crystal  pillars  in  its  depths  and  lifted  their 
diamond-turreted  peaks  to  the  steel-cold  stars  of 
an  unanswering  heaven,  no  one  will  ever  know. 

And  what  became  of  it  ?  We  shall  never 
know.  Perhaps  an  earthquake  rent  its  natural 
levees,  and  it  fled  with  the  Cumberland  or  the 


Songs  and  Stories 

Tennessee  to  the  gulf.  Perhaps  the  mighty  Mis- 
sissippi brushed  with  his  rough  waves  too  closely 
to  the  western  border  of  our  calm  lake  one  day, 
and  she  went  with  him,  a  willing  captive,  to  the 
sea.  Or,  she  may  have  passed  out  down  the 
dark  channels  of  some  mammoth  cave  whose 
caverns  have  never  yet  heard  the  sound  of 
human  voice — we  know  not.  All  we  know  is, 
the  lake  was  here — the  lake  is  gone.  Time  is 
long. 

The  mound-builders  were  not  here  then,  for 
they  have  dotted  its  fertile  basin  with  a  thousand 
voiceless  monuments  of  a  voiceless  age.  Time  is 
long.  The  lake  was  here — the  lake  is  gone. 

But  when  it  went,  it  left  the  sweet  richness  of 
its  farewell  kiss  upon  the  lips  of  our  valleys,  and 
the  fullness  of  its  parting  tears  on  the  cheeks  of 
our  hills.  It  made  the  loam  and  the  land,  the 
spirit  and  the  springs,  the  creeks  and  the  cream 
of  the  Middle  Basin  of  Tennessee — the  Blue 
Grass  Plot  of  the  State 

An  animal  is  the  product  of  the  environments 
that  surround  him — the  blossom  of  the  soil  upon 
which  he  lives.  He  is  part  of  the  sunlight  and 
the  grass,  the  rock  and  the  water,  the  grain  and 
the  gravel,  the  air  which  he  breathes  and  the 
ant-hill  which  he  crushes  beneath  his  feet.  Man 
is  the  highest  animal.  Then  behold  the  man  of 
the  Middle  Basin,  the  highest  development  of  the 
animal  creation  :  Jackson,  Crockett,  Houston, 


from  Tennessee 

Bell,  Polk,  Gentry,  Maury,  Forrest— these  and 
thousands  of  others  whose  names  and  fame  are 
fadeless. 

The  life  of  man  is  what  he  makes  it  ;  and  of 
a  state  what  man  makes  it.  And  so,  in  the  course 
of  time,  the  two  become  as  one — the  men  become 
the  state  while  the  state  is  ever  but  its  men. 
Character  is  what  we  are  ;  reputation  is  what  we 
are  supposed  to  be,  'tis  said.  A  history  of  the 
Middle  Basin,  then,  is  but  a  record  of  the  char- 
acter of  the  people  who  have  lived  and  died  there. 
If  she  did  great  things  in  the  past,  it  was  because 
she  had  great  characters  in  the  past.  The  wis- 
dom of  those  ancient  Greeks  who  taught  their 
children  that  they  were  descended  from  the  gods 
is  to  be  admired  ;  had  they  not,  I  doubt  if  the 
Greeks  had  acted  like  the  gods,  as  they  did  when 
the)'  met  the  Persians  at  Thermopylae  and  Sala- 
mis,  and,  even  that  far  back,  made  the  story  of 
the  Middle  Basin  a  possibility. 

Our  ideals,  at  last,  are  the  true  gauges  of  our 
characters,  and  the  higher  we  rear  these  castk-s 
in  the  air,  the  loftier  will  our  own  soul-dwellings 
be.  Let  us  build  our  characters  as  we  would  our 
castles,  alike  beyond  the  reach  of  those  who 
climb  and  those  who  throw.  For  the  ideal  and 
the  real  go  together.  The  dream  must  precede 
the  chisel,  the  vision  be  father  to  the  brush,  the 
thought  to  the  pen. 

Briefly  stated,  our  forefathers  of  the  Middle 
3 


Songs  and  Stories 

Basin  came  from  North  Carolina  and  Virginia, 
and  when  they  came  over  the  mountain  they 
brought  its  granite  with  them. 

Mountains  and  hills  have  always  produced 
genius  and  liberty.  There  is  a  divine  spirit  that 
dwells  in  the  rarefied  air  of  hill-tops,  that  is 
incompatible  with  ease,  with  slavery  and  with 
sloth.  It  seems  to  permeate  the  souls  of  those 
who  breathe  it,  to  lift  them  above  the  sordidness 
of  that  wealth  which  accumlates  in  the  valleys 
but  for  decay. 

Andrew  Jackson  was  their  type  and,  like  him, 
their  deeds  will  live  forever. 

Down  the  long  aisle  of  the  centuries  to  the 

organ  notes  of  fame 
Stalks  a  silent  figure  hallowed  in  the  light 

of  glory's  name  ; 
Stalks  a  grand,  majestic  manhood  to  those 

eon  fields  to  be, 
A  spiritual  pyramid  in  the  land  of  memory. 

And  if  we  cannot  prove  that  we  are  descended 
from  the  gods,  we  can  at  least  demonstrate  that 
we  are  the  children  of  god-like  men  and  women 
— and  that  is  better. 

Years  have  passed  and  yet  the  Middle  Basin  is 

as  rich  and  beautiful  to-day,  in  the  green  dressing 

of  autumn's  after  grasses,  as  she  was   on    that 

memorable  day,  years  ago,  when  Hood's  army, 

4 


from  Tennessee 

on  its  march  to  Nashville,  came  thundering  with 
thirty-five  thousand  men  over  Sand  Mountain 
from  the  bloody  fields  around  Atlanta.  The 
Tennessee  troops,  as  a  guard  of  honor,  led  the 
advance.  For  days  they  marched  among  the 
"old  red  hills  of  Georgia,"  the  pines  of  North 
Alabama  and  the  black-jacks  of  the  Highland 
Rim.  But  suddenly,  as  they  wheeled  in  on  the 
plateau  beyond  A\t.  Pleasant,  a  beautiful  picture 
burst  on  their  view.  Below  them,  like  a  vision, 
lay  the  border  land  of  the  Middle  Basin — a  sea 
of  green  and  golden  ;  green,  for  the  trough  of  the 
land  waves,  somber  in  the  setting  sun,  had  taken 
on  the  emerald  hues  of  the  pasture  grasses  ; 
golden,  for  the  swelling  hills,  where  rolled  the 
woodlands,  were  studded  with  the  bright  gold 
foliage  of  autumn  leaves,  nipped  by  the  early 
frosts.  Farm  house  and  fences,  orchards  and 
open  field,  meadow  and  meandering  streams, 
newly  plowed  wheat  fields  and  rustling  rows  of 
trembling  corn,  all  basking  in  the  quiet  glory  of 
mellow  sunlight,  formed  a  picture  so  restful  to 
the  eye  of  the  tired  soldier  and  so  sweet  and 
soothing  to  the  homesick  heart,  that  involuntarily 
his  old  slouched  hat  came  off,  his  musket  shifted 
to  "'present  arms,"  and  a  genuine  rebel  yell 
rolled  from  regiment  to  regiment,  from  brigade  to 
brigade,  as  this  splendid  master-piece  of  nature 
unfolded  before  them. 

"Have  we  struck  the  enemy's  picket  already?" 
5 


Songs  and  Stories 

asked  the  thoughtful  Hood,  now  thoroughly 
aroused  and  his  keen  eyes  taking  on  the  flash 
of  battle. 

"No,  General,  but  we've  struck  God's  coun- 
try," shouted  a  ragged  soldier  present,  as  he 
saluted  and  joined  in  swelling  the  volume  of  the 
reverberating  yell. 

Even  the  gallant  Cleburne,  Honor's  own 
soldier,  the  man  whose  matchless  brigade  a  year 
before,  at  the  retreat  from  Chickamauga,  had 
stopped  Grant's  whole  army  at  Ringgold  Gap, 
tipped  a  soldier's  salute  to  the  quiet  church-yard 
at  Ash  wood,  and  expressed  the  wish,  if  he  fell  in 
the  coming  battle,  he  might  sleep  his  last  sleep 
there.  Prophetic  wish  !  With  thirteen  other 
field  officers  he  fell,  a  few  days  afterward,  around 
the  bloody  breastworks  of  Franklin,  and  yielded 
up  his  life  "as  a  holocaust  to  his  country's 
cause." 

But  even  War — the  cloven-footed  curse  that 
he  is — could  not  blanch  her  cheek  save  for  a 
moment,  and  as  soon  as  the  last  echo  of  his  tread 
had  died  away,  she  aroused  again  to  life,  with  a 
wreath  of  emerald  on  her  brow,  the  blush  of  the 
clover  blossoms  on  her  cheek',  the  sparkle  of  her 
own  bright  springs  in  her  eye,  and  the  song  of 
the  reaper  in  her  ear. 

Upon  the  knolls  where  cannon  hurled 
Their  deadly  grape  between, 
6 


from  Tennessee 

The  stately  locusts  have  unfurled 
Their  flag  of  white  and  green. 

And  o'er  the  ridge  upon  the  crest 

Where  gleamed  the  flashing  blade, 

The  serried  rows  of  corn,  abreast 
Stand  out  on  dress  parade. 

Adown  the  slope  where  once  did  reel 

The  stubborn  ranks  of  gray, 
Now  speeds  the  flying  reaper's  wheel — 

Now  charge  the  ranks  of  bay. 
And  down  the  vale  where  marched  the  blue 

With  band  and  banner  fine, 
The  frisky  lambs  in  ranks  of  two 

Deploy  their  skirmish  line. 

And  so  is  she  rich  in  climate  and  in  soil  ;  but 
richer  far  in  the  memory  of  heroic  men — in  lives 
that  shall  live  and  a  beauty  that  shall  never  die: 

O,  the  glorious  Middle  Basin, 

The  rose  in  Nature's  wreath  ! 
With  her  purpling  sky  and  her  hills  on  high 

And  her  blue  grass  underneath. 
'Tis  here  our  fathers  built  their  homes, 
'Tis  here  their  sons  are  free — 
For  the  fairest  land 
From  God's  own  hand 
Is  the  Basin  of  Tennessee. 
7 


Songs  and  Stories 

O,  the  fertile  Middle  Basin  ! 

Proud  Egypt's  threshing  floor 
Held  not  in  the  chain  of  her  golden  grain 

Such  fields  as  lie  at  our  door. 
Our  daughters  grow  like  olive  plants 
Our  sons  like  the  young  oak  tree — 
For  the  richest  land 
From  God's  own  hand 
Is  the  Basin  of  Tennessee. 


O,  the  joyous  Middle  Basin, 

Land  of  the  mocking-bird  ! 
Where  the  flying  feet  of  our  horses  fleet 

In  front  of  the  race  are  heard. 
They  get  their  gameness  from  our  soil, 
Their  spirit  will  ever  be — 
For  the  merriest  land 
From  God's  own  hand 
Is  the  Basin  of  Tennessee. 

O,  the  loyal  Middle  Basin  ! 

So  quick  for  fife  and  drum  ! 
She  stood  in  the  breach  on  the  cresent  beach 

When  the  hated  foe  had  come. 
Her  Jackson  made  our  nation  safe, 
Her  Polk  an  Empire  free—- 
For the  truest  land 
From  God's  own  hand 
Is  the  Basin  of  Tennessee. 


from  Tennessee 

O,  the  glorious  Middle  Basin  ! 
Can  we  be  false  to  thee  ? 
Sweet  land  where  the  earth  and  the  sky 

give  birth 

To  the  spirit  of  Liberty  ! 
Not  while  our  maids  have  virtue, 
Not  while  our  sons  are  free — 
For  the  fairest  land 
From  God's  own  hand 
Is  the  Basin  of  Tennessee. 


Songs  and  Stories 


OLE    MISTIS. 

A  BRIGHT,  sunny  morning,  about  fifty  years 
ago,  in  a  valley  of  the  Middle  Basin  of 
Tennessee.  A  handsome  brick  residence,  with 
sturdy  pillars  and  flanking  galleries,  on  a  grassy 
knoll  that  slopes  up  from  a  winding  pike.  Barns, 
whitewashed  and  clean  as  a  sanded  kitchen  floor ; 
fences,  shining  in  long  lines  in  the  hazy,  spring 
sunlight ;  orchards,  in  bloom  and  leaf ;  wheat- 
fields,  stretching  away  in  billowy  freshness,  turn- 
ing now  to  amber,  now  to  emerald,  as  the  west 
wind  laughed  across  them.  Further  on,  a 
meadow,  dotted  with  sheep  and  cattle,  while 
nearer  the  house,  and  to  the  right,  a  narrower 
meadow  of  bluegrass,  through  which  merrily 
leaped  a  sparkling  branch  whose  source  was  in  a 
large  stone  dairy  near  the  house.  This  meadow 
had  been  divided  into  paddock  after  paddock, 
each  containing  a  handsome  mare  or  two,  with 
foal  at  her  side. 

This  is  the  home  of  Col.  James  Dinwiddie,  the 
courtliest  gentleman,  best  farmer,  kindest  friend, 
most  relentless  enemy,  most  charitable  neighbor, 


from   Tennessee 

nerviest  gambler,  and  owner  of  some  of  the  best 
race  horses  in  Tennessee. 

"  Horse  racing,"  he  has  said  a  hundred  times, 
"  is  the  sport  of  the  gods.  A  man  must  breed 
horses  twenty  or  thirty  years  and  have  his  an- 
cestors do  the  same,  too,  before  he  can  become 
an  all  around  gentleman.  The  proper  study  of 
mankind,  sir — with  due  respect  to  Alexander 
Pope — is  horsekind.  Gambling  on  horseraces  is 
wrong — of  course  it  is,  sir.  It's  wrong  just  like 
it's  wrong  to  gamble  on  the  price  of  wheat  or 
corn,  or  city  lots,  or  to  raffle  off  cakes  and  quilts 
at  church  festivals,  or  to  run  up  a  bill  at  your 
grocer's  when  the  chances  are  ten  to  one  you'll 
never  pay  it — wrong,  all  wrong,  sir.  But  how 
are  you  going  to  stop  it  ?  I,  for  one,  shall  not  try. 
The  Dinwiddies  can  show  ten  generations  of 
gentlemen,  sir,  and  not  a  single  hypocrite  " — and 
he  would  invite  you  out  to  a  paddock  to  see  a 
stallion  he  had  lately  imported  from  England. 
"  The  winner  of  the  Derby,  sir, "he  would  add 
as  he  looked  him  critically  over  ;  "the  winner  of 
the  Derby,  while  kings  and  princesses  looked  on 
in  admiration  and  delight." 

The  clay  wears  dreamily  on,  being  one  of  those 
spring  days  when  wanton  May,  coquetting  both 
with  April  and  June,  varies  her  moods  to  suit 
each  ardent  wooer.  Everything  is  busy  grow- 
ing— too  busy  to  attend  to  anything  but  its  own 
affairs.  Even  Brutus,  the  Colonel's  negro  jockey, 
1 1 


Songs  and  Stories 

was  rubbing  with  more  than  usual  attention  a 
magnificent  blood-like  gray  mare  half  covered 
with  a  costly  all-wool  blanket,  on  which  the 
Dinwiddie  monogram  was  stitched  in  red  silk'. 
In  the  clean,  newly-swept  hallway  she  stood, 
impatiently  enough,  with  the  cooling  bridle  on, 
her  keen  ears  now  flashing  forward,  as  some  ob- 
ject attracted  her  attention  in  front,  now  laid 
back  threateningly  on  her  neck  as  the  vigorous 
jockey  rubbed  too  ardently  her  steaming  sides — 
for  he  had  just  given  her  her  morning  work-out — • 
and  champing  incessantly  the  bright  round 
snaffle-bit  in  the  loosely-fitting  head  stall.  An 
imp  of  a  darkey,  twelve  or  fifteen  years  old, 
small,  wiry,  with  quick,  sharp  eyes,  sits  just  out 
of  reach  of  the  mare's  heels  on  an  upturned  peck 
measure,  and  watches  like  a  cat  every  movement 
of  the  deft  rubber. 

Jake,  as  his  name  went,  was  a  privileged  char- 
acter. "  The  mascot  of  the  barn,"  as  the  Colo- 
nel called  him,  "  and  we  can't  get  along  without 
him — him  and  the  rat  terrier.  Just  watch  them, 
Brutus,"  he  had  said  only  yesterday  to  the  new 
jockey  he  had  lately  imported  from  New  Orleans 
to  ride  his  horses  and  superintend  his  stable,  "  and 
don't  let  them  go  to  sleep  in  the  stall  with  Old 
Mistis  or  get  too  near  the  mare's  heels.  With 
any  of  the  other  horses  it  makes  little  difference. 
My  luck  would  desert  me  if  either  of  them  got 
hurt." 

]  2 


from  Tennessee 

To-day  Jake  was  taking  his  first  opportunity 
to  tell  the  new  jockey  all  he  knew. 

"  You  gotter  be  mighty  keerful  dar,  wid  Ole 
Mistis,"  he  said,  as  the  mare  raised  a  hind  foot 
threateningly  from  a  too  careless  stroke  of  the 
rubber,  "  mighty  keerful.  She's  er  oncommon 
kuis  mair  an'  wuf  all  de  res'  ob  de  string.  Didn't 
ole  Marster  tell  you  you  mustn't  nurver  try  to 
rub  her  off  'twellyou's  fust  cleaned  off  her  face 
— de  berry  op'site  from  eny  yuther  boss  ?  He 
ain't  ?  Wai,  it's  a  good  thing  I  tole  you,  or  you'd 
er  bin  kicked  ober  de  barn  !  An'  didn't  he  tell 
you  erbout  de  warterin'  ob  her,  dat  she  didn't 
drink  spring  warter  like  de  yuthers,  but  you  had 
to  warter  her  outen  de  cistern  whar  de  white 
folks  drinks  ?  He  ain't  ?  Wai,  you  jes'  try  her 
now.  She'll  die  ob  thirstivashun  afore  she'll 
drink  a  drap  unless  it  cums  outen  de  cistern.  I'm 
de  onliest  one  dat  understand  dis  mair,  an'  dat's 
er  fac,"  said  the  imp,  as  he  arose  from  his  im- 
provised seat  and  ran  a  hand  down  into  a  jean 
pocket  where  he  had  stored  away  a  bright  carrot. 
Slipping  carelessly  under  the  mare's  flank,  before 
the  jockey  could  stop  him,  he  bobbed  up  suddenly 
under  her  nose  and  presented  to  her  the  rich 
vegetable,  exclaiming:  "  Heah,  you  gray  ghost, 
faster'n  greased  lightnin'  down  er  skinned  syc- 
ermore,  an'  meaner'n  de  debil  to  his  muddern- 
law — take  dis  !"  and  the  bit  stopped  rattling  in 
her  nervous  jaws  as  she  proceeded  to  devour  the 


Songs  and  Stories 

carrot,  after  which  she  whinnied  and  then  rubbed 
her  nose  affectionately  on  a  closely  cropped, 
woolly  head,  with  every  sign  of  satisfaction. 
"  Take  me  outer  dis  heah  barn,"  remarked  the 
little  darkey  pompously,  as  he  strolled  back  to 
his  seat,  catching  the  mare  playfully  by  the  tail 
as  he  passed,  "  an'  dis  mair  would  kill  sum  nigger 
befo'  night.  I'm  de  onliest  one  dat  understan's 
her,  an'  ole  Marster  '11  tell  you  so.  Didn't  he 
nurver  tell  you  how  1  made  Ole  Mistis  win  de  ten 
t'ousan'  dollars  at  de  big  race  las'  spring  ?  He 
ain't  ?  Wai,  he  mayn't  tole  it  to  you,  but  I've 
heurd  'im  tell  it  to  de  guv'ners,  majahs  an'  jedges 
dat  visits  -him,  when  dey  sets  out  in  de  frunt 
peazzer  an'  smokes  at  night,  an'  dey  nearly  die 
laffin'.  'Sides  dat,  it's  bin  rit  in  de  papers,  mun  ! 
"  You  see  we  got  holt  of  er  fool  heah  las'  year 
dat  thout  de  way  ter  train  hosses  wus  ter  beat 
'em.  We  didn't  kno'  he  wus  dat  way  at  de  time 
or  we  wouldn't  er  hi'ed  'im.  We  b'leeves  in 
kindness  heah  ;  we  don't  beat  noboddy  'cept  dey 
b'leeged  ter  have  it — noboddy  but  my  mammy, 
Aunt  Fereby,  de  cook.  She  beats  me  nigh  ter 
death  sumtimes,  'kase  I'm  her  onliest  chile  an' 
she's  tryin'  ter  raise  me  right,  an'  Marster  says 
'he  'lows  it  'kase  she's  de  onliest  one  on  de  place 
dat  knows  dey've  got  de  genuwine  religun.  Wai, 
dis  fellow  we  got,  tried  ter  train  Ole  Mistis  dar, 
an'  lac  ter  ruined  her.  She  won't  take  no  beatin'. 
No,  siree  ;  why,  man,  dat  mair's  by  Sir  Archie, 


from  Tennessee 

fus'  dam  by  Bosting,  secun'  dam  by  Diermeed, 
third  dam  by  Fly  in'  Childen,  fourth  dam  by 
'Merican  'Clipse,  an'  so  on  fur  twenty  mo' — I've 
heard  ole  Marster  tell  it  er  hunded  times.  Wai, 
de  end  ob  it  wus  we  jes'  had  de  oberseer  gib  dat 
nigger  a  cow-hidin'  and  saunt  him  erway  ;  an' 
we  turned  Ole  Mistis  out  on  de  frunt  lawn  to  try 
an'  furgit  it.  An'  dat's  whar  I  fell  in  lub  wid 
her.  J  ain't  got  nuffin'  ter  do  but  to  tote  de 
kitchin  wood  in  fer  mammy,  an'  I  uster  go  out 
dar  an'  feed  Ole  Mistis  apples  an'  sech  lak,  an' 
one  day  Marster  tried  'er  agin  on  de  track,  wid 
me  dar  to  be  wid  'er,  an'  she  run  lak  a  skeered 
deer  wid  de  houns  at  her  heels.  Ole  Marster 
laf  an'  say,  '  By  de  eternal  !  but  dat  boy  am  a 
reg'lar  muscat — he  bring  me  good  luck  !'  and 
he  twell  'em  to  take  me  to  de  big  race  wid  'em 
at  Nashville  de  nex' month.  Jimmy  !  But  didn't 
we  hab  a  good  time  on  de  road  ?  We  hitched  up 
de  fo'  mule  team  an'  put  all  our  things  in  an' 
went  'long  in  style.  Ole  Marster  went  'long  in  de 
kerridge  wid  Mis'  Anne — dat's  de  young  mistis — • 
an'  Cap'n  Sidney— dat's  her  bow— 1  hates  dat 
white  man,  he's  so  mean — an'  we  eben  carry  de 
horrow  an'  de  big  pair  Devum  steers  to  pull  it. 
'  What  you  gwine  carry  dis  horrow  fur  an'  dis  ox 
team,  Kunnel  ?'  said  de  Sidney  man  when  we 
started.  '  Bekase,  sah,'  said  ole  Marster,  'my 
hosses  can't  run  ober  pavements,  an'  dat's  whut 
dey  had  to  do  de  las'  time  !  wus  dar.  Dat  crowd 
15 


Songs  and  Stories 

up  dar  too  stingy  to  keep  de  tracks  borrowed, 
sah,'  an'  we  all  went  on.  Wai,  sah,  I  slep'  in 
de  stall  wid  Ole  Mistis  ebry  night  an'  she  nurver 
tromped  on  me  nary  time.  De  mornin'  ob  de 
race  dar  wus  de  bigges'  crowd  I  eber  seen. 
'Twas  down  in  de  ole  clober  bottom,  whar  dey 
say  Gineral  Jackson  useter  race  ;  an'  bright  an' 
early  ole  Marster  rid  out  to  de  stable  on  de  track 
an'  tell  de  head  jockey  to  hook  up  de  par  of 
Devum  steers  to  de  borrow  an'  make  me  bor- 
row de  track  for  Ole  Mistis — an'  den  he  rid  off 
sum'ers.  Dey  put  me  on  de  off  steer  an'  gin 
me  a  big  stick,  an'  I  went  'roun'  an'  'roun'  dat 
track  twell  I  got  mighty  tired.  An'  dey  guyed 
me  an'  hollered  at  me  up  at  de  gran'  stan'.  An' 
one  man  laffed  an'  hollered  to  sum  mo'  dar  in  er 
little  stan'  by  deyself  an'  said,  'Time  'em, 
gineral,  ef  dey  ain't  goin'  too  fas'  fur  yore 
watch,'  an'  den  dey  all  look  at  me  an'  de  two 
steers  an'  laf.  '  But,'  thinks  I  to  myself,  'ebry 
man  gotter  start  at  de  bottom  ef  he  'specks  to 
rise,  an',  dough  I'm  gwine  'roun'  on  a  steer  now, 
dey  am  good  ones,  an'  dese  folks  will  yet  lib  to 
see  me  go  'roun'  on  dis  track  on  de  bes'  piece 
ob  boss  flesh  dat  eber  stood  on  iron.'  I  kin  stan' 
white  folks  laffin'  at  me,  but  de  nex'  time  I  cum 
'roun'  dar  wus  some  little  niggers  laffm'  an' 
throwin'  clods,  an'  it  made  my  blood  bile. 
Torectly  one  on  'em  got  up  clos'  to  me  an'  I 
hauled  off  an'  fotch  'im  a  whack  on  de  head  wid 
1 6 


from  Tennessee 

my  stick,  but  de  nex'  one  I  hit  I  missed,  an'  hit 
de  ox  on  de  tip  ob  his  big  horn  an'  knocked  de 
shell  off  clear  down  to  his  head.  Wai,  when  ole 
Marster  cum  he  was  sho'  mad,  'kase  he  thout  a 
heap  ob  de  steers,  an'  it  sp'iled  de  match  to  have 
one  on  'em  wid  de  horn  off,  an'  he  ax'  de  jockey, 
'who  dun  it?'  An'  de  jockey  said,  'Ax  Jake.' 
An'  he  ax  me  whut  I  do  hit  fur,  an'  he  wouldn't 
b'leeve  me  when  I  tole  him  'bout  de  little  nig- 
gers, an'  he  took  his  ridin'  whip  an'  started  to 
lambas'  me.  But  it  was  den  prutty  nigh  time  to 
race  an'  he  changed  his  mind  an'  said  :  '  No  ;  I 
won't  whip  you  ;  you  won't  mind  dat ;  but  I'll 
hurt  you  wusser — I'll  lock  you  up  in  de  stable 
an'  you  shan't  see  Ole  Mistis  run  her  race.' 

"Wai,  sah,  dat  lacter  kill  me.  I  beg  'im  to 
gib  me  a  good  'un  but  let  me  see  de  race  !  I 
cried  an'  I  hollered,  but  ole  Marster  had  'em  shut 
me  up  an'  lock  me  in  an'  dar  I  wus.  Wai,  de 
crowd  guthered  an'  de  ban'  played  an'  de  bosses 
cum  out,  an'  I  looked  through  de  crack  an'  seed 
Ole  Mistis  wid  our  colors  up  an'  eb'rybody 
hoorayin',  an'  1  jes'  couldn't  stan'  it  !  I  knowed 
ole  Marster  wus  busy  an'  he'd  forgot  all  erbout 
me  an'  I  jes'  dug  out  dat  stable  like  a  rat,  an' 
slipped  up  to  de  three-quarter  pole  whar  de 
bosses  cum  doun  fur  de  wurd.  Wai,  sah,  you 
orter  seed  dat  race  ;  hit  wus  a  corker  ef  dey 
eber  wus  one.  I  furgot  I  wus  erlive — I  seemed 
to  be  in  ernuther  wurld— I  didn't  think  ob  the 
17 


Songs  and  Stories 

Devum  steers  no  mo' — 'twus  glory  hallieluyar, 
cinnerman  bark  an'  pep'mint  candy,  two  circuses 
an'  er  watermelon  patch,  moonshine  and  heabenly 
angels,  an'  I  turned  er  summerset,  I  felt  so  good, 
an'  hollered  to  de  common  niggers  erround  me  es 
loud  es  I  could  :  '  Look  at  Ole  Mistis  !  Look  at 
Ole  Mistis  !  Jes'  lookit  my  mair  !'  An'  jes'  'bout 
den  dey  cum  'roun'  doun  our  way  an'  ernudder 
hoss  shot  by  Ole  Mistis  an'  de  niggers  all  laf  an' 
holler,  '  Whar  am  Ole  Mistis  now  ?'  an'  hit  made 
me  so  mad  I  jumped  on  de  fense  an'  jes'  es  de 
mair  cum  by  I  hollered  at  'er  wid  all  my  might : 
'  Look  out,  Ole  Mistis  !  Look  out,  Ole  Mistis  ! 
Look  out  !  Fur  Cord  sake  run  !'  An'  fo'  good- 
ness she  heurd  me  for  she  jes'  collared  dat  hoss 
an'  went  by  'im  lak  he  wus  hitched  to  de 
gyardin  palins.  An'  when  I  seed  she  bed  beat 
'im  I  jes'  turned  summersets  all  ober  de  groun' 
an'  walk  on  my  ban's  an'  h'ist  my  feet  under 
dem  common  niggers'  noses.  An'  ebery  time  I 
turn  er  summerset  an'  kick  my  feet  I  sing  : 

Possum  up  de  gum  stump, 

Fat  hog  in  de  waller — 
Ole  Mistis  gin  herself  a  hump 

An'  beat  'em  all  to  holler  ! 

O  my  Ole  Mistis  !     My  Ole  Mistis  ! 

Whar  you  gwine  ?     Whar  you  gwine  ? 
O  my  Ole  Mistis  !     My  Ole  Mistis  ! 

You  kno'  you  ain't  ha'f  tryin'  ! 
18 


from  Tennessee 

"An'  den  I  riz  an'  turned  ernudder  summer- 
set an'  cracked  my  heels  in  de  air,  an'  gin  'em 
ernudder  one  'kase  I  was  so  happy  : 

Jay-bird  took  de  hoopin'  coff, 

Kildee  took  de  measle, 
Oie  Mistis  took  de  money  off — 

Pop  goes  de  weasel  ! 

O  my  Ole  Mistis  !     My  Ole  Mistis  ! 

Whar  you  gwine  ?     Whar  you  gwine  ? 
O  my  Ole  Mistis  !     My  Ole  Mistis  ! 

You  kno'  you  ain't  ha'f  tryin'  ! 

"  But  when  I  riz  de  nex'  time  I  liked  ter  drap  in 
my  tracks!  Dar  stood  ole  Marster  and  'er  whole 
crowd  er  gemmens  lookin'  at  me  an'  laffin',  an' 
when  he  seed  I  seed  'irn  he  cum  tenclin'  like  he 
wus  mighty  mad,  an'  sez  :  '  You  imp  of  a  nigger  ! 
Whut  you  cum  outen  dat  stall  fur  ?  I'm  er  good 
min'  ter  flay  you  erlive  !'  An'  I  drapped  on  de 
grass  at  his  feet  an'  sed  :  '  Ole  Marster,  kill  me — 
beat  me  to  def !  I  kno'  I  desarves  it,  but  I've 
seed  de  bes'  boss  race  in  de  wurl,  an'  Ole  Mistis 
has  won  it.  Thang  God  !  I'm  recldy  to  go  !'  An' 
whut  you  reckon  he  dun,  nigger  ?  Ole  Marster  ! 
Right  dar  in  dat  crowd  !  He  jes  '  pull  out  er  ten 
dollar  gold  piece,  an'  laf  an'  sed:  'Heah,  you 
little  rascal  !  Ef  dat  mair  hadn't  heurd  you  er 
hollerin'  on  de  fence  I  don't  b'ieeve  she'd  eber 
19 


Songs  and  Stories 

made  dat  spurt  an'  won  de  race.'  An'  de  folks 
all  'roun'  sed  de  same  tiling.  '  Take  dis  money,' 
he  sed.  '  Now,  go  an'  help  rub  her  off  !'  Fur  er 
fac'  he  did." 

"  Jake-e-e  !  Oh,  Jake  !"  came  a  terrific  voice 
from  the  back  porch.  A  glance  by  Brutus  showed 
that  it  emanated  from  the  center  of  a  dark,  moon- 
like  object  which  appeared  to  be  an  eclipse,  for  a 
deep  circle  of  red  bandanna — not  unlike  the  rays 
of  the  sun  creeping  over  its  edges — shone  over 
the  northern  hemisphere.  Beneath  this  cropped 
out  a  tuft  of  corded  hair,  not  unlike  the  peaks  of 
a  lunar  mountain.  The  moon  was  evidently  in 
a  state  of  activity,  however,  for  from  Brutus' 
distance  the  terrific  "Jake-e!  Oh,  Jake-e!"  which 
continued  to  pour  steadily  forth  seemed  to  come 
out  of  a  volcanic  pit,  situated  near  the  southern 
extremity  of  the  satellite.  The  sphere  seemed 
poised  on  an  object,  which,  from  the  barn  door, 
was  not  unlike  a  mountain  weighing  some  three 
hundred  pounds  and  decked  in  a  blue  checked 
homespun,  girdled  around  the  center  with  a  string. 
At  the  sound  of  the  voice — for  such  it  was,  and  it 
came  from  Aunt  Fereby,  the  cook — the  small 
braggart  ceased  his  narration  as  suddenly  as  if  he 
had  met  the  fate  of  Ananias.  The  fat  person  in 
the  porch  became  greatly  excited.  Shading  her 
eyes  with  a  hand  covered  with  biscuit  dough,  she 
looked  intently  at  the  barn  door,  as  if  it  were  the 
object  of  her  wrath,  and  screamed  : 
20 


from  Tennessee 

"  Don't  you  heah  mecallin'  you,  yer  raskill  ?" 

"  Unc'  Brutus,"  said  the  small  person,  now 
considerably  rattled,  "  is  dat  mammy  callin'  me  ?" 

"You  kno'  it  is,"  said  Brutus,  as  he  went  on 
with  his  rubbing,  while  the  virago  still  held  her 
hand  over  her  eyes  with  a  look  of  vengeance 
there. 

"What  am  she  doin'  now  ?"  asked  the  tamer 
of  oxen,  in  the  hallway  ;  "  eny  thing  'cept  hol- 
lerin'  ?" 

"She's  gethered  up  her  cloze  to  her  knees," 
said  Brutus,  as  he  glanced  up,  "  an'  she's  cum- 
min' t'words  de  barn  wid  'er  brush-broom  in  her 
han's.  You'd  better  git,"  he  added  significantly. 

But  Jakey  needed  not  this  admonition.  He 
had  already  departed  at  the  rear  door  of  the  barn. 
However,  he  called  back:  "  Unc'  Brutus,  don't 
forgit  ter  soak  de  bandages  in  arnica  water  afore 
you  put  'em  on  Ole  Mistis'  legs.  You  kno'  — 

"  You  git  !"  said  Brutus,  picking  up  a  stout 
cob.  "  Git  !  Does  de  ole  rider  like  me  want  eny 
tellin'  from  a  kid  of  yore  stripe?"  But  Jake  had 
already  hurried  out  of  the  rear  of  the  barn,  in- 
tending to  keep  on  down  the  rock  fence  and  turn 
up  suddenly  in  the  kitchen  with  a  bundle  of 
"  sage-grass"  in  his  arms,  as  evidence  that  he  had 
been  on  the  errand  on  which  he  had  been  sent. 
But  these  tactics  must  have  been  played  before, 
for  the  party  armed  with  the  brush-broom  darted 
around  the  rear  of  the  stable,  instead  of  the  front, 

21 


Songs  and  Stories 

and  immediately  afterward  the  jockey  rubbing 
off  the  gray  mare  heard  a  painful  collision,  fol- 
lowed by  yells  from  Jakey,  and  the  regular  she- 
wow,  shewow,  shewow  of  the  switches  as  the 
current  was  turned  on.  A  few  minutes  afterward 
the  mountain  and  moon  was  seen  hurriedly  ad- 
vancing back  to  the  kitchen,  holding  her  youthful 
scion  by  the  ear,  while  the  boy  half  ran,  half 
jumped,  with  now  and  then  a  yank  in  the  air 
from  his  mother  to  help  him  along,  and  getting 
the  benefit  of  the  after-clap — a  tongue  lashing. 
"Dat's  de  way  you  am,"  she  said  as  he  went 
along,  "  spendin'  yore  life,  an'  sp'ilin'  yore 
chances  fur  usefulness  in  dis  wurl'  an'  heb'n  in 
de  naixt,  fool  in'  wid  dat  low  jockey  crowd  down 
dar  at  de  barn,  an'  me  wurryin'  myself  ter  def 
tryin'  to  raise  you  right."  (A  yank.)  "  Des'  lak 
de  good  book  say:  'A  thankles'  chile  am  sharp- 
er'n  a  suppent's  tooth' — (yank  !  yank  !) — only 
you  ain't  sharper  'tall — (a  vigorous  twist) — ain't 
sharper  nuff  to  hide  in  de  hay  loft  when  you  heah 
me  callin'  you  'stead  er  runnin'  out  dat  back  do' 
when  you  dun  dat  trick  three  times  befo'  an'  think 
1  ain't  got  sense  nuff  to  kno'  it  !  (Yank,  yank, 
yank  \)  But  I  needn't  'spec'  you  to  do  nuffin 
right — you  sp'iled  already.  Dar  !  set  doun  dar 
in  dat  cornder,"  she  said  as  she  gave  him  a  final 
yank  in  the  air  and  landed  him  in  the  kitchen 
comer,  "an' eat  dat  cracklin'  bread  I  dun  sabe 
fur  you  while  you  doun  dar  at  de  stable  ruinin' 


from  Tennessee 

yore  immoral  soul  foolin'  vvid  race  horses.  An' 
what  I  sabe  it  fur  you  fur?"  striking  an  attitude 
and  looking  at  him  with  convincing  scorn. 
"  Whut  fur,  I  say?  Jes'  to  teach  you  a  lesson 
frum  de  Bible,  to  let  you  kno'  it  allerscums  true. 
Don't  it  say:  *  De  way  oh  de  transgressor  am 
hard'?  You  dun  foun'  dat  out,  ain't  you?  Wai, 
it  also  says  :  '  Blessed  am  dey  dat  moans  fur  dey 
shall  be  cumfetted.'  You  dun  hab  you  moanin', 
now  be  cumfetted  an'  thank  yore  stars  you  got  a 
good  muclder  dat  kno's  how  to  'terprit  de  scrip- 
ters,"  and  she  flung  herself  in  a  chair  and  pro- 
ceeded to  cool  off. 

Jakey  accepted  the  interpretation  of  the  skillet 
of  crackling  bread,  and  having  dried  his  tears  on 
his  sleeves,  and  felt  of  his  ear  to  see  that  it  was 
still  there,  he  fell  to  and  proceeded  to  be  comforted 
with  a  zeal  bordering  on  religious  enthusiasm. 

"  But,  law!"  began  his  mammy,  after  a  pause, 
"  I  can't  do  nuffm  wid  him.  I  heurd  ole  Mars- 
ter  say  de  big  race  cum  off  soon  an'  he  gwine 
take  you  erlong  es  a  muscat.  Dat's  de  way  it 
am  ;  '  De  wicked  race  to  dar  own  destrucshun.'  " 

Jake  stopped  eating  at  once.  "  Is  dat  so, 
mammy?"  with  a  look  that  showed  how  he  stood 
on  the  subject. 

For  answer  the  chair  was  vacated  in  an  instant 
and  the  brush-broom  picked  up. 

"  Come,  come,  Fereby,  you  have  whipped  that 
boy  enough  !" 

23 


Songs  and  Stories 

The  cook  dropped  her  switches  and  said  apolo- 
getically to  her  master — for  it  was  Col.  Dinwiddie 
who  was  passing  by  and  spoke— "  Jes'  es  you  say, 
Marster.  I'm  jes'  tryin'  to  raise  Mm  right.  You 
kno'  what  King  Sollermon  say:  '  Spare  de  rod  an' 
spile  de  chile  '  —triumphantly. 

"Yes,  but  a  greater  one  than  Solomon  has 
said  :  '  Blessed  are  the  merciful  ;  for  they  shall 
obtain  mercy.'  Jake" — to  the  boy — "go  un- 
hitch my  horse  from  the  rack  and  take  him  to  the 
barn,"  and  the  Colonel  went  on  in. 

The  boy  went  off  with  alarcity.  "  '  Blessed  am 
de  merciful,'  he  said  to  himself,  'fur  dey  shall 
obtain  mercy.'  Dat's  de  bes'  religun  I  eber 
heurd  in  my  life.  Ef  all  ob  'em  had  dat  kind  dar 
wouldn't  be  a  brush-broom  or  a  mean  temper  in 
de  wurl,"  and  he  patted  the  horse  on  the  nose 
and  mounted  him.  Darkey  like,  he  put  him 
through  all  his  gaits  before  he  reached  the  barn. 

II. 

But  although  the  sun  shone  so  brightly  on  the 
fertile  fields  and  splendid  mansion  of  Col.  Din- 
widdie, there  was  little  of  its  sunshine  in  the  heart 
of  its  owner  on  that  May  day,  fifty  years  ago. 
With  a  paper  in  hand,  near  sunset,  he  sat  out  on 
his  front  veranda,  looking  dreamily  and  moodily 
ahead  at  a  sloping  wheat  field  across  the  pike. 
How  beautiful  it  looked  !  How  the  recent  rains 
had  brought  it  out,  filling  its  golden  meshes — 
24 


from  Tennessee 

those  chaff  thatched  granaries — with  the  product 
of  the  sun  and.  soil  !  Near,  the  big  poplars  in  his 
own  yard  lifted  their  red  and  yellow  wax  blossoms 
to  heaven  or  showered  them  on  the  blue  grass 
carpet  below.  A  hundred  sweet  fragrances  filled 
the  evening  air,  a  hundred  homely  sounds  fell 
on  his  ears.  Among  them,  and  dearer  than  all 
others,  was  the  occasional  whinny  of  a  stately 
matron  in  the  paddock  beyond,  disturbed  for  a 
moment  because  her  own  suckling  had  strolled 
off  to  caper  and  play  mimic  racing  with  some 
other  mare's  degenerate  offspring. 

"  My  faculties  are  peculiarly  acute  this  even- 
ing," said  the  master  to  himself,  "or  else  I  am 
a  rank  coward,  unable  to  stand  misfortune.  I 
never  saw  the  old  place  have  such  a  charm  be- 
fore," he  continued,  half  aloud.  "  I  don't  mind 
giving  it  up  so  much  on  my  own  account,  but 
Anne"— 

"What!  father?"  answered  behind  him,  a 
voice  full  of  sweetness.  "Did  you  call  me  ?" 
— and  a  beautiful  girl  stepped  out  from  a  bay 
window  and,  laving  her  hands  affectionately  on 
his  shoulders,  reached  over  and  playfully  kissed 
him. 

With  their  faces  together,  it  would  not  require 
a  close  observer  to  see  the  striking  resemblance 
between  Anne  Dinwiddie  and  her  father.  Left 
motherless  at  an  ear!}"  age,  Anne  had  found  in 
one  parent  all  the  love  and  affection  usually 
25 


Songs  and  Stories 

given  by  two.  Nothing  could  exceed  the 
Colonel's  tenderness  and  affection  for  his 
daughter,  and  nothing  Anne's  pride,  love  and 
admiration  for  her  father.  Perhaps  her  life  with 
a  masculine  mind  had  given  a  stronger  turn  to 
her  o\vn,  instead  of  the  feminine  cast  and 
romantic  play  that  might  have  been  expected 
under  other  circumstances.  Or,  perhaps  she  in- 
herited it  from  her  father — a  strong,  firm  man 
himself — for  the  girl  was  as  much  known  for  her 
practical  sense  and  firmness  as  for  her  matchless 
beauty.  This  evening,  in  her  baby-waist  gown 
of  white  muslin,  cut  low-neck,  and  short  sleeves, 
her  auburn  hair  gracefully  coiled  behind  a  shapely 
head  and  tucked  in  with  a  large  mother-of-pearl 
comb,  inlaid  with  gold,  her  face  aglow  with  a. 
silent  happiness  which  bespoke  another  love 
within,  the  girl  was  divine,  and  her  father  drew 
her  to  her  old  place  on  his  knee — for  though 
nearly  twenty  she  was  to  him  the  little  tot  of 
two  years — the  same  he  wept  over  in  her  crib 
the  night  after  her  mother  was  laid  away  forever, 
and  the  first  great  grief  of  his  life  came  to  break 
in  on  his  ambition — the  ambition  "to  breed  the 
best  horse  that  ever  lived  on  the  best  farm  in 
Tennessee." 

The   Colonel   was  a   man   that   spoke   to   the 

point,  and  of    few   words.     In    his   daughter   he 

found  a  mind  in  which  his  own  sought  help  and 

advice.     All    his   business  was    known    to    her. 

26 


from  Tennessee 

Even  many  of  his  breeding  problems  he  had 
tried  to  solve  with  her  aid,  and  it  was  no  little, 
for  she  had  pedigrees  and  records  at  her  tongue's 
end  and  knew  the  great  horses  of  the  past  as 
mariners  did  the  stars. 

"  My  child,"  said  her  father,  bluntly,  "  I  have 
gambled  once  too  often  ;  I  am  afraid  I've  ruined 
us,"  and  he  looked  away  across  the  wheat 
fields. 

An  expression  of  pain  came  over  the  girl's 
strong  face,  but  she  said  nothing.  This  one 
question  of  gambling  on  horses  was  the  only  one 
on  which  her  father  and  herself  had  differed,  and 
the  look  she  now  wore  showed  that  at  last  had 
happened  what  she  always  feared  would  happen. 
At  length  she  asked  : 

"  How  much  is  it  ?" 

"  Forty  thousand  dollars  " — his  eyes  still  on 
the  distant  fields. 

"Can  you  pay  it?"  in  a  tone  which  showed 
she  was  more  afraid  of  her  father's  honor  suffer- 
ing than  of  being  left  penniless  herself. 

"  Not  unless  1  sell  the  horses—" 

"  Then  sell  them,"  came  the  quick  answer. 

"  And  the  farm,"  he  continued. 

"  Let  it  go,  too." 

"My  child,"  said  her  father,  as  he  rested  his 

eyes  steadily  on  her  face,  "  of  course  1  shall  if  it 

comes  to  the  worst,  but — but — "  and   he   caught 

himself    stammering    like  a   school-boy,    as    he 

27 


Songs  and  Stories 

gazed  in  the  sweet,  honest  eyes  of  his  daughter 
— "  Anne,  there  is  another  " — he  stopped  again, 
with  a  look  of  positive  annoyance  on  his  clear- 
cut  face.  The  twilight  shadows  had  fallen,  the 
lamps  were  lit  in  the  hall,  but  still  the  father 
broke  not  the  silence. 

"Cur'pony!  Cur'pony!  Cur'pony!"  came 
from  across  the  meadow,  as  the  stable  boy  stood 
in  the  pasture  and  called  up  the  yearlings  for 
their  evening  meal.  Around  the  corner  of  a 
neat  cabin  a  sprightly  young  negro  was  pick- 
ing a  banjo,  accompanying  the  deep,  rich  notes  of 
the  instrument  with  a  voice  in  perfect  attune — 
"Ahoo-a,  an'  er-who-ah — ahoo-a,  an'  er-who-ah 
— ahoo — ahoo,"  sounded  the  voice  on  the  still 
evening  air,  and  the  echoing  strings  of  the  banjo 
repeated — 'ahoo — ahoo  !' 

"But  what,  father?"  at  length  asked  the 
daughter. 

"Why,  my  child,"  said  the  Colonel,  awaken- 
ing from  his  revery,  "  I  intended  telling  you 
before.  I  should  have  mentioned  it,  I  am  sure, 
several  days  ago,  only  I  did  so  hate  to  do  it. 
You  know  how  it  hurts  me  to  give  you  up  !  But 
'tis  your  right  and  privilege  to  hear  and  my  duty 
to  bear  the  message  from  Captain  Sidney.  A  few 
days  ago  he  asked  me  for  my  permission  to 
approach  you  on  a  subject." 

The  girl  sprang  up,  her  face  crimson,  her  eyes 
ablaze. 

28 


from  Tennessee 

"Your   permission,    father?      He   had   better 

get  from  me  some  token  of  at  least  a  partial 
consent  for  him  to  approach  you  on  such  a 
subject  !  Permission,  indeed  !  Father,  I  hate 
the  man  !" 

"My,  my,  my!"  said  her  father,  half  laugh- 
ing, half  astounded,  "but  I  never  saw  you  so 
stirred  up,  my  darling  !  Why,  Sidney  has  been 
here  every  two  or  three  weeks  for  a  dozen  years, 
is  twice  your  age,  and  has  actually  seen  you 
grow  up  and  has  never  made  any  secret  of  wait- 
ing for  you.  Rich,  handsome,  jovial  and  actually 
worships  you  !  I  thought  you  two  were  fine 
friends." 

"  Father  !  Father  !"  exclaimed  the  girl,  "  you 
do  not  know  me  !  As  your  guest  and  friend  I  en- 
dured Captain  Sidney,  and  treated  him  courte- 
ously. But  do  you  think  a  girl  has  no  heart,  no 
ears,  no  eyes  ?  I  have  disdained  from  maiden 
modesty  to  tell  you  before  what  your  one  question 
demands  of  me  now.  Would  you  have  your 
daughter  wed  a  man  whose  excesses  have  even 
reached  the  ears  of  as  unworldly  a  maid  as  I  ? 
Am  I  to  be  won  by  a  man  merely  because  he  is 
your  friend  and  is  'rich,  handsome,  jovial  and 
worships  me,'  as  you  say  ?  I  do  not  love  him — 
that  is  enough  !  Oh,  father  !"  she  said  with 
sudden  impulse,  as  she  seated  herself  in  his  lap 
and  took  his  face  in  both  her  hands  and  laid  her 
face  against  his,  "did  not  my  dear  mother  love 
29 


Songs  and  Stories 

you  ?  You  know  what  I  mean — how  I  mean  !" 
and  tears  rolled  down  from  her  brown  eyes. 

"  By  the  eternal,  you  are  right  !"  said  the 
Colonel,  as  he  arose  hastily,  with  a  trace  of 
emotion  in  his  own  voice.  "I  hadn't  thought 
of  that!  The  scamp!"  he  repeated  half  aloud. 
"  I  like  him  myself,  but  what  am  I?  Only  a 
gambler  !  He  is  another — a  gentleman — yes,  a 
gentleman — but  a  gambler  for  all  that  !  And 
his  excesses  in  other  directions — whew  !  Anne  !" 
he  called,  as  he  kissed  her  and  started  into  his 
room,  "you  are  right — always  right — always 
right.  I  hadn't  thought  of  that,"  and  the  door 
closed  on  his  form,  a  trifle  bent,  Anne  thought, 
as  she  sank  in  a  chair  and  wept  from  sympathy 
for  her  father. 

But  there  never  was  a  girl  like  Anne  Din- 
widdie.  Tears  did  not  stay  with  her  long.  She 
dismissed  the  Captain  with  a  contemptuous  sniff 
as  she  vigorously  wiped  her  reel  nose  and  eyes, 
and  then  she  fell  to  thinking  with  her  practical 
little  mind  to  find  a  way  to  help  her  father. 
Throwing  an  opera  shawl  over  her  head  and 
rounded  shoulders — for  the  air  was  chilly — she 
sat  silently  rocking  and  looking  up  at  the  stars. 
Presently  the  big  gate  at  the  pike  shut  with  a 
bang  and  a  few  moments  later  the  rhythmical 
feet  of  a  saddle  horse  played  a  tune  as  they 
pattered  up  the  gravel  walk.  On  came  the 
horseman  till  the  animal  reached  the  portico 
3° 


from  Tennessee 

where  sat  the  silent  figure  in  white,  when  he 
shied  suddenly  to  the  left.  The  ease  with  which 
the  rider  retained  his  seat  showed  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  such  antics  from  his  horse,  and  the 
dexterity  with  which  he  pressed  a  knee  in  the 
animal's  chest  and  whirled  it  about  face  with  a 
twist  of  a  firm  hand  made  the  girl's  eyes  sparkle 
with  excitement.  In  a  moment  the  rider  had 
bounded  over  the  railing  with  : 

"  Hello  !  Anne,  is  that  the  way  you  frighten 
off  your  beaux  ?  Sit  out  here  in  the  dim  light 
with  just  enough  white  about  your  head  to 
frighten  their  horses  to  death,  and  have  them 
plunging  all  about  over  your  white  pink  and  for- 
get-me-not beds  ?" 

"  Jim  !  Jim  !  How  could  you  ?"  laughed  the 
girl,  as  she  arose  and  shook  his  hand.  "  Didn't 
I  tell  you  you  should  not  come  over  to-night  ? 
As  Uncle  Jack,  the  carriage  driver  would  say, 
you  are  a  positive  '  nuessence.'  ' 

"O,  Anne,"  he  said,  with  boyish  enthusiasm, 
as  he  drew  a  chair  up  close  to  hers,  "  I  just 
couldn't  stay  away.  1  have  thought  of  you  all 
day.  'Jim  Wetherall,'  said  the  old  gentleman 
when  he  came  into  the  lower  field,  where  I  was 
looking  after  the  hands  plowing  and  let  them  all 
go  clown  to  the  spring  for  water  and  waste  an 
hour  idling  just  because  I  was  thinking  of  you, 
'  Jim  Wetherall,  if  you  ain't  in  love  you  are  just 
a  lunatic,  and  that's  all.  Why  the  mischief  don't 
31 


Songs  and  Stories 

you  look  after  your  business  ?  And  is  this  the 
way  you  let  them  run  corn  rows  over  a  hillside, 
with  such  a  fall  as  to  make  a  gully  the  first  hard 
rain  that  comes  ?' 

"After  supper  I  saddled  Troup,  and  thinks  I, 
Til  just  ride  over  and  look  at  the  light  in  her 
window.'  But  may  you  never  speak  to  me  again 
if  the  rascal  Troup  didn't  turn  in  the  gate  before 
I  knew  it,  and  here  I  am.  And,  oh,  Anne,  if  you 
only  knew  how  I  love  you — 

But  Jim's  mouth  was  stopped  with  a  hand  over 
it — which  he  proceeded  to  kiss,  to  the  fair  owner's 
chagrin,  for  she  immediately  withdrew  it  and 
gave  the  kisser  a  rap  on  the  head  with  the  other 
one. 

"  Jim  !  Jim  !  Don't  be  a  goose,"  she  said. 
"  You  don't  know  how  sad  and  worried  I  am  to- 
night," and  she  proceeded  to  tell  him  all  her 
father's  troubles. 

Jim  and  Anne  had  been  playmates  from  early 
youth.  The  boy,  though  really  a  man  now,  had 
never  concealed  anything  from  her — not  even  the 
fact  that  he  always  had  and  always  would  love 
her.  Anne  had  laughed  at  him  in  her  sisterly 
way;  had  helped  him  in  his  studies  as  he  grew 
up — for  she  had  many  advantages  over  Jirn,  whose 
father  was  an  honest  and  well-to-do  farmer.  The 
boy,  under  her  influence,  had  even  gone  to  college 
and  managed  to  graduate,  but  was  noted  more 
for  his  hard  horse  sense,  as  they  called  it,  and 
32 


from  Tennessee 

his  frank  honesty,  than  for  any  great  leaning 
toward  the  classics  or  any  diplomatic  erudition. 
"The  only  classic  I  want,"  he  said  to  Anne,  after 
he  came  back  home,  "is  you.  When  I  think  of 
you,  Anne,"  he  cried,  "I  see  all  the  goddesses 
and  nymphs  and  queens  of  old.  You  seem  to  me 
like  one  of  those  Grecian  temples  I  read  of,  with 
pillars  so  stately  and  everything  so  perfect.  You 
seem  to  belong  to  another  age,  so  different  from 
mine — so  far  away,  and  sweet  and  dreamy,  and 
high  above  me,  and  for  which  my  soul  yearns. 
Oh,  Anne,  can't  you  love  me  ?" 

And  Anne  would  laugh  and  tell  him,  "  Maybe, 
Jim,  some  day."  And  the  big  fellow  would  be 
satisfied  and  glad  to  be  allowed  to  see  her  now 
and  then  and  bide  his  time. 

"  Forty  thousand  dollars  is  a  big  sum  to  owe," 
said  the  now  thoughtful  Jim,  when  Anne  had  told 
him  all — and  Jim  knew  by  the  way  she  spoke 
that  she  was  silently  weeping.  Then  she  said 
softly  : 

"Jim,  who  could  have  taken  such  an  advan- 
tage of  father  ?  Perhaps  it  was  fair  as  far  as 
gambling  goes,  Jim,  but  you  know  how  honor- 
able and  fair  father  is,  and — and — I've  heard 
those  kind  always  lose  in  the  end,  you  know, 
Jim." 

Jim  was  silent.  "Must  I  really  tell  you, 
Anne  ?"  he  said  at  length.  "  Well,  it  is  Captain 
Sidney." 

3  33 


Songs  and  Stories 

"Oh,  Jim  !"  said  Anne,  in  astonishment,  "  how 
did  you  know  ?" 

"Never  mind,"  he  said,  quietly.  "It  would 
not  be  altogether  manly  for  me  to  tell  you,  Anne, 
but  I  know  it  for  a  certainty;  besides,  I've  an  idea 
in  my  head  that  may  help  us." 

"Oh,  Jim  !  do,  do  help  us — dear  Jim,"  she  said 
impulsively  ;  "  you  are  clever  and  know  so  much 
that  is  practical,  and  are  so  honest  and  kind  and 
true.  Oh,  Jim,  if  you  can  help  us  I  will  never 
forget—" 

"Anne!"  he  said,  catching  her  hand,  "God 
knows  I  would  die  for  you  or  the  Colonel,  either. 
He's  been  the  kindest,  best  friend  I  ever  had. 
He's  a  gentleman — every  inch  of  him — and  you, 
oh,  Anne,  I  would  die  if  you  were  out  of  my 
life  !  But,"  he  said,  suddenly  checking  himself, 
"please  forgive  me — this  is  no  time  for  that. 
What  a  goose  I  am  !"  After  a  pause  :  "  Anne, 
I'm  going  now.  My  head  is  too  full  of  a  plan  I 
have  to  talk  any  longer.  A  calamity  such  as 
you  have  mentioned  would  simply  wreck  your 
and  the  Colonel's  life — and  mine,  too,"  he  added, 
slowly,  "if  yours  was.  We  all  have  a  chance 
some  time  in  life  to  show  what  we're  made  of," 
he  continued,  "  and  now  is  my  time.  And  I  am 
going  in,  heart  and  soul.  I'll  show  you  I'm  no 
feather-bed  friend,  but  one  who  can  love  in 
prosperity  and  love  harder  in  adversity.  I  don't 
know  what  1  can  do— but,  Anne,  I'll  try,  for 
34 


from  Tennessee 

your  and  the  Colonel's  sake — even  if  you  marry 
another.  Don't  cry" — for  Anne  was  crying 
softly — "but  good  night.  You  will  hear  from  me 
again,"  and  the  brave  fellow  was  in  the  saddle. 

"Jim  ?" 

The  horse  was  spurred  up  close  under  the 
balcony. 

"Jim  ?" 

And  the  golden  head  bent  over  the  railing  till 
the  red  lips  touched  his  ear,  and  the  smell  of  her 
perfumed  hair  seemed  to  the  bewildered  Jim  like 
the  glory  of  the  fragrant  locks  of  all  the  god- 
desses of  ancient  Greece. 

"Jim,  dear  Jim  !  I — I — think — I — love — you 
— now.  Good  night  !"  And  she  was  gone, 
while  Jim  sat  in  mute  silence  and  inexpressible 
happiness,  looking  up  in  the  eyes  of  two  stars 
that  twinkled  above  where  her  own  had  just 
been.  And  looking,  Jim  wondered  whether  he 
was  really  alive  on  horseback,  or  was  only  a  spirit 
of  joy  winging  its  way  to  the  two  stars  which 
shone  above  him  in  the  place  of  Anne's  eyes. 

A  moment  later  Troup,  his  saddle  horse,  became 
convinced  there  was  no  spirit  there,  for  he  felt  a 
vigorous  thrust  from  anything  but  a  spiritual  foot 
in  his  side,  and  he  bounded  away  in  a  gallop. 

III. 

For  several  days  Anne  was  in  a  state  of  quiet 
happiness.     She  did  not  see  Jim  for  a  week — she 
35 


Songs  and  Stories 

did  not  want  to.  She  did  not  know  what  was 
going  to  happen,  but  she  felt  as  if  something  was, 
and  that  all  was  safe.  She  sang  around  the 
house  like  a  bird.  It  all  flashed  over  her  one  day 
when  her  father  said  at  the  tea  table  : 

"  That  boy  Jim  Wetherall  is  a  trump.  He  has 
got  more  horse  sense  in  a  minute  than  I  have  in 
a  year !"  Anne  looked  up  in  astonishment.  The 
Colonel  continued:  "You  know  Ole  Mistis  is 
entered  in  the  Cumberland  Futurity,  worth 
$50,000  to  the  winner.  I  have  never  regarded 
her  as  a  promising  candidate,  and  of  late  she  has 
been  going  so  badly  in  her  work  under  the  new 
jockey  that  I  had  abandoned  the  idea  of  paying 
the  final  entrance  fee.  But  Jim — you  know  how 
interested  he  has  always  been  in  the  horses, 
Anne  ! — (but  Anne  was  busy  with  her  teacup, 
while  her  cheeks  were  scarlet) — seems  to  be 
more  so  of  late,  and  has  been  over  every  day.  He 
soon  convinced  me  the  mare  was  shod  wrong  and 
that  the  boy  Brutus  knew  nothing  about  his  busi- 
ness. 'Why,  Colonel,'  he  said,  in  his  blunt 
way,  'he  shouldn't  ride  a  speckled  steer  to  water 
for  me  ;  the  mare  is  fast,  very  fast — he  doesn't 
understand  her.'  And  what  do  you  reckon  ?" 
Anne  could  not  imagine  !  "  Why,  he  is  actually 
working  her  himself,  with  Jake  as  a  rider,  and  I 
never  saw  such  improvement,  Anne,"  he  said,  as 
he.  came  around  to  her  chair.  "  If  I  could  only 
win  that  stake  it  would  be  the  happiest  day  of  my 
36 


from  Tennessee 

life.  Never  more  would  I  race  a  horse — never 
again  would  I  gamble.  I  feel  almost  upset  of 
late.  I  am  weak  and  peevish,  vacillating  and 
unnerved.  Last  night,"  he  said,  slowly,  and 
with  more  seriousness  than  was  his  custom,  "I 
dreamed  of  your  dear  mother,  child,  and  her 
sweet,  dark  eyes  seemed  full  of  pity  and  sorrow," 
and  Colonel  Dinwiddie  walked  slowly  over  to  the 
portrait  which  hung  on  the  wall  and  stood  looking 
at  it  in  silent  admiration,  while  his  daughter 
came  up  and  put  her  arms  around  him  with, 
"Never  mind,  father;  don't  be  worried.  Just 
let  Jim  take  charge — he  is  clever  and  honest, 
and  will  surprise  you  yet." 

The  morning  of  the  greatest  race  ever  run  on 
Tennessee  soil  came.  The  city  was  crowded 
with  visitors  ;  excitement  was  at  fever  heat. 

"We  haven't  a  chance  in  the  world,  Anne," 
said  Col.  Dinwiddie  to  his  daughter,  as  she  sat  in 
the  grand  stand,  dazed  and  confused  with  the 
mighty  crowd  around  her  and  a  terrible  weight 
on  her  heart.  "  It  is  not  so  bad  as  that,  Anne," 
said  Jim,  who  had  come  up  to  whisper  a  few 
words  of  encouragement  before  the  horses  start- 
ed ;  "there  is  always  a  chance  in  a  horse  race. 
The  best  one  may  break  his  leg  within  ten  feet 
of  the  wire.  So  don't  be  altogether  wretched," 
and  he  went  off  to  look  after  the  mare. 

Two  o'clock  !  The  crowd  was  immense. 
Never  before  was  assembled  such  a  galaxy  of 
37 


Songs  and  Stories 

beauty  and  gallantry  in  the  Volunteer  state.  The 
riders  were  weighed,  horses  handicapped  and  all 
sent  up  the  stretch. 

Jake  was  delighted  when  told  he  was  to  ride 
Ole  Mistis.  He  was  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  the 
mare  was  thought  to  be  in  no  fix  to  win  and  that 
the  betting  was  10  to  i  against  her. 

"  All  enybody's  got  ter  do,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, "is  to  set  on  her  an'  guide  'er.  I'd  like  to 
see  'em  beat  Ole  Mistis  !" 

But  when  his  master  came  to  him  in  the  stretch 
to  give  him  instructions  even  the  little  darkey 
saw  something  was  wrong.  He  had  never  seen 
the  Colonel  look  that  way  before.  His  eyes 
were  stern,  but  expressionless  ;  his  voice  husky 
with  emotion,  and  the  quick  spirit  of  command 
seemed  to  have  given  way  to  the  evil  genius  of 
despair.  Quiet  and  commanding  as  ever,  but 
Jake  saw  he  was  in  no  mood  to  be  crossed,  and 
all  but  guessed  his  master  had  made  up  his  mind 
for  defeat  and  ruin. 

"Jake!" 

"Yes,  Marster,"  said  Jake. 

"Listen  to  what  1  tell  you,  and  do  as  I  tell 
you.  Do  you  see  that  bay  horse  there  ?" 

"Yes,  Marster,"  and  Jake  cast  his  keen  eyes 
contemptuously  on  the  bay. 

"  Well,  Jake,  they  say  he  is  going  to  beat  my 
mare.  If  he  does"— he  clutched  Jake's  arm 
tightly,  so  tight  the  boy  winced,  and  his  master's 


from  Tennessee 

voice  sunk  to  a  whisper  as  he  said — "  If  he  does, 
Jake,  I  am  ruined,  ruined  !" — and  the  boy  almost 
quailed  before  the  stern  expression  that  gleamed 
from  his  master's  eyes.  Then  he  resumed  : 
"  Now  listen  :  the  bay  will  set  the  pace,  but  do 
you  keep  up  with  him — easy  as  you  can,  but  up 
to  him — stay  with  him.  It's  four  miles,  and  a 
death  struggle  ;  but  the  mare  can  go  the  route. 
When  you  come  in  the  stretch  at  the  last  mile, 
take  this  rawhide  " — drawing  a  keen  whip — 
— "  and  whip  her  from  the  last  eighth  home.  It's 
your  only  chance,  and  not  much  at  that.  Do 
you  hear  me  ?"  for  Jake  gazed  at  him  in  astonish- 
ment. 

"  Marster," — slowly — "you  sho'ly  don't  'spec' 
meter  whip  Ole  Mistis  wicl  dis  ?" — apologetically. 

"  Expect  you  ?"  thundered  the  Colonel.  "  Did 
you  hear  what  I  said  ?  Do  as  I  tell  you  or  I'll 
have  the  overseer  flay  you  alive  after  this  race. 
Do  you  hear,  now  ?" 

"Yes,  Marster,"  said  Jake,  as  he  took  the 
whip  and  turned  the  mare  into  line.  But  to  him- 
self he  said  : 

"  Whut  !  Me  beat  Ole  Mistis  wid  dis  thing  ? 
Ole  Mistis— my  Ole  Mistis  ?  I'll  take  it  myself 
fust!  Sho'ly  Marster  ain't  at  hissef  " — and  he 
looked  around  to  see  where  the  bay  horse, 
Loraine,  was.  At  that  moment  Jim  Wetherall 
came  up. 

"Jake,"  he  said,  "what  did  the  Colonel  tell 
39 


Songs  and  Stories 

you  ?"  Jake  told  him.  "  That's  all  right;  now 
listen  to  me.  Do  you  see  that  path  of  firm  clay 
there  in  the  center  of  the  track  ?  Well,  it  runs 
from  the  last  eighth  to  the  wire.  I  worked  all  the 
morning  with  ten  teams  to  put  it  there.  The 
track  is  too  soft  for  the  mare,  Jake;  and,  besides, 
you  know  how  she  is.  She's  foolish  about  things 
at  the  old  home,  ain't  she,  Jake  ?" 

"  Dat  she  is,  Marse  Jim." 

"And  we've  run  her  on  the  clay  path  in  the 
orchard  for  weeks,  haven't  we,  Jake  ?  Well, 
now,  boy,  what  we  want  to  do  is  to  make  the  old 
mare  feel  at  home.  When  you  come  round  the 
last  time  throw  her  on  this  path — the  footing  is 
good — cut  her  loose,  and  I  don't  believe  any  of 
them  can  head  you  !" 

Jake  nodded.  "And  don't  forget  this,"  he 
said  :  "  I've  got  a  thousand  dollars  in  my  pocket 
to  buy  you  if  you  win  this  race,  and,  on  the  word 
of  Jim  Wetherall,  I'll  set  you  free.  Do  you 
understand  me,  Jake  ?" 

The  negro's  eyes  fell.  "  I'll  win  it  enyway, 
ef  I  can,  Marse  Jim.  Whut  I  wanter  be  free  fur 
— whut'd  I  do  erway  frum  ole  Marster  an'  Ole 
Mistis  ?"  And  Jake  waited  for  the  word. 

But  all  were  not  ready,  and  the  longer  they 
waited  the  more  intense  became  the  boy's  anxiety. 
Left  to  himself  in  a  crowd  of  rough  jockeys,  who 
did  what  they  could  to  frighten  the  mare  and 
annoy  the  boy,  it  was  almost  pathetic  to  see  him 
40 


from  Tennessee 

reach  over  and  stroke  the  great  mare's  neck  and 
say  to  her:  "  Doncher  be  afeerd,  Ole  Mistis — • 
dis  am  Jake — little  Jake,"  and  then  he  would 
add,  softly  and  tenderly,  "  He  ain't  gwineter  hit 
you — my  Ole  Mistis — my  Ole  Mistis." 

And  what  a  wonderful  change  came  over  the 
mare  !  Not  to-day,  as  she  had  been  on  former 
occasions,  was  she  nervous  and  unruly,  whirling 
round  and  round,  endeavoring  to  break  away, 
or  refusing  to  line  up.  Her  entire  nature  seemed 
changed — Jake's  presence  was  magical.  She  stood 
perfectly  still,  quiet  and  apparently  indifferent — 
and  only  in  her  quick,  glancing  eye  and  the  almost 
imperceptible  play  of  her  ears  could  a  close 
observer  have  seen  the  great  struggle  going  on 
within  her — a  struggle  to  control  the  frantic  desire 
for  wild  flight — a  desire  inherited  from  an  hundred 
ancestors — now  fighting  for  possession  of  her  na- 
ture. It  was  a  grand  example,  even  in  a  brute, 
of  will  conquering  passion,  of  dumb  intelligence 
controlling  brute  force,  of  a  small  ray  of  human 
reason,  playing  like  an  electric  spark  through 
clouds  of  tumultuous  darkness  and  waiting  for  the 
explosion  that  would  make  the  thunderbolt  ! 

The  starter  is  talking — Jake  knows  not  what, 
but  he  gathers  the  reins  tighter.  The  flag  drops  ; 
the  ball  of  living,  flying  flesh  is  shot ;  a  roar  an- 
swers back  from  the  grand  stand  which  says, 
"They're  off!  They're  off  !" 

Jake  had  great  confidence  in  his  master's  judg- 
41 


Songs  and  Stories 

ment.  Ignoring  every  other  horse,  he  kept  his 
small,  black  eyes  on  the  big,  galloping  bay,  and 
his  swaggering,  insolent  rider.  Unused  to  the 
crowd  and  the  flying  speed,  the  sensation  of  riding 
so  fast,  for  the  first  quarter,  was  almost  painful 
to  Jake — he  appeared  to  himself  to  be  flying  in 
the  air,  tied  to  a  projectile.  The  roar  of  the  wind 
in  his  ears  hurt  them  ;  he  dodged  instinctively, 
and  with  a  silent  prayer  placed  his  mount  by  the 
side  of  the  bay  and  held  her  in.  The  rider  of 
Loraine  was  an  old  jockey  and  knew  as  well  as 
the  gamblers  what  horse  he  had  to  beat,  as  well 
as  the  invincible  prowess  of  his  own  horse — there 
was  nothing  there  could  beat  him  ! 

"  Don't  ride  so  fast,  little  nig,"  he  shouted  to 
Jake  in  derision.  "  Gib  de  rest  of  us  a  showin'; 
we've  got  fo'  miles  to  go;  don't  pump  us  out  de 
fust  mile." 

But  this  disturbed  not  Jake.  If  a  negro  has  one 
quality  overtopping  all  others  it  is  his  infinite 
patience.  And  Jake  was  a  true  type  of  his  race. 
He  said  nothing,  but  no  snake  in  the  swamp 
had  a  quicker  eye,  or  knew  better  when  to 
strike. 

As  the  Colonel  had  said,  Loraine  had  set  the 
pace,  and  it  was  hot  enough.  "  But  look', 
Anne,"  he  said,  "how  the  mare  goes  to  his 
girth  and  stays  there  !  See  with  what  a  bold 
and  assuring  stride  she  flies  along— easy,  graceful, 
unconcerned.  I  never  saw  her  run  so  !  Great 

God  !    if  she  will  only  win  !"     And  Anne,  when 
42 


from  Tennessee 

she  saw  the  gallant  fight,  cried  softly  to  herself 
and  sent  up  a  silent  prayer. 

"  Cum  on  little  woolly-head,"  said  Loraine's 
rider,  as  they  passed  the  first  mile,  "  dis  am 
g\vinter  be  er  boss-race.  I'm  jes'  playin'  \vid 
you  now  to  get  your  wind — by  an'  by  I'll  leave 
you  an'  de  ole  mare  in  de  home-stretch  to  pick 
grass."  But  the  satyr  imp  said  never  a  word, 
and  the  gray  mare,  as  she  pulled  anon  on  the  bit, 
told  even  her  inexperienced  rider  that  she  had  a 
reserve  supply  of  speed.  But  how  much  ?  And 
did  the  bay  have  more  ? 

On  they  went !  Two  miles  !  Jake  knew  it 
by  a  second  roar  from  the  stand  as  they  passed. 
He  tried  to  look  forward  but  the  wind  cut  his 
eyes  ;  he  recognized  only  a  black  mass  of  shout- 
ing humanity,  Loraine's  rider  still  rode  uncon- 
cerned and  indifferent.  Jake  dreaded  the  mo- 
ment when  he  would  act,  when  he'd  send  the 
bay  for  the  death  struggle.  The  boy's  heart  beat 
like  a  drum,  his  breath  came  in  gasps,  his  throat 
was  dry  !  "Cum  on  little  nig," — he  heard  no 
more,  for  the  bay  was  pulling  away,  and  the 
rushing  air  was  an  organ  hurricane  playing  a 
thousand  tunes  in  his  ear.  The  sunshine  flashed 
a  thousand  kaleidoscopic  colors  before  his  eyes  ! 
He  seemed  to  be  flying,  but  whether  backward 
or  forward  he  knew  not.  "  Cum  on  little  " — but 
he  barely  caught  the  sound,  so  far  away  did 
Loraine's  rider  appear  to  be.  Another  roar  ! 
43 


Songs  and  Stories 

Three  miles  !  The  track  was  a  small  white  line 
stretched  in  the  air.  Jake  heard  the  shouts  of 
the  riders  behind  him,  the  slashing  of  many 
whips  as  the  keen  instruments  of  torture  fell  on 
straining  Hanks.  His  ov/n  mare  scudded  before 
the  field  of  noise  behind  her  as  a  sea-bird  before 
the  hurricane's  roar,  and  yet  she  seemed  to  get 
no  nearer  the  demon  bay  that  flew  fearlessly 
along.  She  pulled  on  her  bit !  Instinct  seemed 
to  tell  her  she  must  go  now  or  never.  "  Not  yit, 
Ole  Mistis,  not  yit !"  said  her  ashen-faced  rider, 
as  he  bent  to  her  stride  and  patted  her  sweat- 
covered  neck.  At  the  last  half !  It  seemed  to 
Jake  they  had  gone  a  day's  journey — that  time 
had  stopped  and  eternity  had  begun  since  he  shot 
away  on  that  frenzied  ride.  How  many  long 
miles  yet  lay  between  him,  it  seemed,  and  where 
Miss  Anne  sat,  pale  and  statue-like,  in  the  blurred 
bank  of  humanity  under  the  grand  stand  !  The 
last  quarter  !  Jake  raised  in  his  stirrups.  "  Now, 
Ole  Mistis,  go  !"  he  fairly  shouted,  as  he  gave  her 
full  head  for  the  first  time.  The  mare  responded 
with  a  gallant  leap — another  and  another — but 
no  nearer  did  she  come  to  the  bay.  Loraine  had 
been  turned  loose,  too,  and  increased  the  distance 
between  them  with  demoniacal  swiftness  !  Like 
a  death-stab  the  thought  went  through  Jake's 
mind  for  the  first  time  that  he  could  not  win. 
The  tears  gushed  to  his  eyes,  the  blood  seemed 
to  congeal  in  his  very  heart ;  he  clutched  the 


from  Tennessee 

saddle  to  retain  his  seat.  Loraine  was  just 
ahead  ;  they  were  now  at  the  last  eighth.  Fren- 
zied— frantic — blinded — bewildered,  Jake  knew 
not  what  he  did.  In  despair  he  raised  his  whip, 
it  flashed  a  moment  in  the  sunlight,  then  went 
whistling  across  the  track.  He  had  thrown  it 
away  !  But  look  !  Loraine  now  fairly  flew  ! 
He  seemed  to  know  the  time  had  come.  His  own 
mare  ?  She  was  falling  back.  He  knew  it,  he 
felt  it— he  was  beaten  !  Overcome  with  grief 
and  shame,  he  forgot  all  about  Loraine.  He 
thought  only  of  the  old  home,  of  his  love  for  his 
master,  of  Miss  Anne,  of  his  idolatrous  worship 
of  the  mare,  mingled  with  the  fact  that  he  had 
ruined  them  all.  A  clay  path  flashed  under  the 
mare's  nose,  and  then  he  thought  of  Jim  Weth- 
erall's  words — of  his  promised  freedom.  Crazed 
with  fear  and  shame,  he  guided  the  mare  in  the 
path,  let  out  all  his  rein,  and  flung  himself  for- 
ward on  her  neck,  clinging  to  her  mane  like  an 
imp  on  a  flying  cloud.  Thrusting  two  brown 
heels  into  her  flanks,  he  burst  out  crying,  and  in 
tones  that  moved  even  the  victorious  rider  of 
Loraine,  he  sobbed  :  "  Ole  Mistis  !  Ole  Mistis  ! 
Dis  am  Jake — little  Jake  !  Go  home,  Ole  Mistis  ! 
Go  home,  Ole  Mistis  !!  Go  home  !!!" 

To   the  surprise   of  the   spectators,  who    now 

looked  on  the  victory  of  Loraine  as  complete,  the 

mare  answered  this  pathetic  call  with  a  burst  of 

speed  unheard  of  on  the  track  even  to  this  day. 

45 


Songs  and  Stories 

A  thousand  demons  of  determination  blazed  in 
her  eyes.  One — two — three  leaps  she  made,  like 
a  startled  doe  at  the  death  bleat  of  her  fawn,  and 
in  a  twinkling  she  had  cleared  the  distance  be- 
tween herself  and  the  bay.  The  crowd  roared 
in  a  tumult  of  excitement — men  climbed  on  one 
another's  shoulders — the  gray  mare  came  like  a 
rocket  !  Loraine's  driver,  startled  and  now  thor- 
oughly in  earnest,  went  to  his  whip.  It  flashed  a 
moment  in  the  air  and  fell  with  stinging  emphasis 
on  the  bay's  shoulders  !  The  animal  swerved — 
that  blow  was  his  ruin,  for  the  gallant  bay,  never 
before  having  felt  a  blow,  swerved  slightly  to 
avoid  it.  Only  a  yard  or  two — but  yards  are 
miles  when  seconds  are  hurricanes  !  Only  a 
moment  of  indecision — but  indecision  is  mutiny 
when  stakes  are  kingdoms  !  Like  a  swallow  be- 
fore the  blast,  the  gray  mare  thrust  her  long  neck 
under  the  wire— and  the  race  was  won  ! 

A  moment  later  the  crowd  of  shouting,  frenzied 
people  ceased  shouting  to  a  man,  when  the  fleet 
animal,  having  no  one  to  guide  her,  turned  so 
suddenly  into  the  drawgate  that  opened  on  the 
infield  as  to  hurl  Jake  off,  and  left  him  mangled 
on  the  track.  Later  they  stood,  a  surging  crowd, 
around  a  beautiful  girl  seated  on  the  ground  and 
holding  a  bruised  and  bleeding  face  in  her  lap, 
upon  which  her  own  tears  fell.  The  boy  opened 
his  eyes  and  half  unconsciously  began  to  mur- 
mur :  "  'Most  home,  Ole  Mistis  !  'Most  home,  Ole 
46 


"  Dis  am  Jake — little  Jake !     Go  home,  Ole  Mistis !     Go  home  ! !  " 


from  Tennessee 

Mistis  !  'Most  home!"  Presently  a  ray  of  con- 
sciousness came  back  to  his  lusterless  orbs,  as 
he  recognized  his  young  mistress  and  exclaimed  : 
"  Oh,  Miss  Anne,  did  we  win  ?"  and  interpreting 
correctly  the  half  joyous  smile  that,  despite  her 
tears,  shone  round  her  mouth  at  thought  of  their 
victor}',  he  closed  his  eyes  and  said  :  "  Thang 
God,  an'  I  didn't  tech  'er  a  lick.  Tell  Marster 
I'm  sorry — but — I — couldn't — hit — 'er  !"  For  a 
moment  he  was  silent  and  then  his  lips  moved 
again  —  feebly,  for  the  life  spark  was  nearly 
gone:  "  '  Blessed — am — de — merciful — fur — dey 
— shall — obtain  mercy'  " — and  the  little  slave 
was  free  forever. 


47 


Songs  and  Stories 


MISS  KITTY'S  FUN'RAL. 


O, 


HEAH  de  banjo  ringin', 
O  heah  de  tamboreen, 
O  heah  de  darkies  singin', 
Susanna  am  my  queen. 
O  cum,  my  lub  ;  O  cum,  my  lub,  wid  me  ; 
We'll  dance  an'  sing  down  by  de  'simmon  tree  ; 
O  heah  de  banjo  ringin', 
O  heah  de  tamboreen  ; 
O  heah  de  darkies  singin  ', 
Susanna  am  my  queen. 

A  song  in  type  is  as  unsatisfactory  as  one  of 
Nature's  pastels  on  pasteboard,  and  the  simple 
negro  melody  above  sounds  nothing  like  the 
vibrating  notes  that  floated,  not  long  ago,  into  my 
window,  fresh  from  the  echoing  strings  of  a 
banjo.  I  could  not  resist  it,  and  on  going  out  I 
found  Old  Wash,  as  everybody  calls  the  old 
darkey,  under  the  elm  that  shaded  his  cabin  door. 
The  moonbeams  glittered  askance,  flecking  the 
earth  with  silvered  blossoms  and  changing  each 
48 


from  Tennessee 

flooded  leaf  into  a  night-blooming  flower.  The 
distant  notes  of  a  tree-frog  came  from  the  forest 
beyond,  while  the  regular  cadences  of  a  whip- 
poorwill  added  just  the  tinge  of  weirdness  neces- 
sary to  form  the  background  of  a  banjo  song.  In 
darkey  language,  the  old  man  was  "makin'  de 
banjo  hum,"  and  for  melody  and  sweetness,  in 
the  hands  of  a  master,  there  is  no  instrument 
more  weirdly  musical. 

To-night  Old  Wash  was  beside  himself.  The 
brass  thimble  on  his  "pickin'  finger  "  flashed  in 
the  moonlight  ;  his  foot  patted  in  unison,  and 
fluttered  like  a  black  bat  trying  to  leave  the 
earth.  Even  his  body  kept  time  and  swayed  to 
and  fro  with  the  music.  I  listened  in  silent  de- 
light. The  tune  I  had  heard  before,  but  nut  the 
words,  for  he  was  improvising  as  he  played. 

De  little  stars  am  winkin', 

Dey  'bout  ter  go  ter  sleep  ; 
De  pale  moon  now  am  sinkin', 

An'  daylight  shadders  creep. 
O  cum,  my  lub,  we'll  dance  Ferginny  reel  ; 
De  sun  am  up  an'  shinin';  now  fur  de  cottun  fk-1'. 
O  heah  de  banjo  ringin', 

O  heah  de  tamboreen  ; 
O  heah  de  darkies  singin', 

Susanna  am  my  queen. 

"Go  on,  old  man,"   I  said:      "Give  me  that 
4  49 


Songs  and  Stories 

song  again.  You  almost  make  me  feel  like  going 
courting  again.  What's  the  matter  with  you  ? 
Thinking  about  starting  all  over  in  life  ?" 

"No,  sah;  'taint  dat,  sah,"  laughed  the  old 
man,  "  'taint  dat.  Deys  too  much  moss  on  de 
ole  tree  fur  de  leaves  ter  cum  ergin.  De  sap 
can't  rise  when  de  bark  am  dead.  De  leabes  fall 
off  when  de  cotton  boll  open.  Didn't  you  nurver 
think  erbout  it?"  he  added  after  a  moment's 
thought,  "de  soul  don't  nurver  gro'  ole  ef  it's 
libbed  right.  De  head  gits  white  an'  de  lim's 
weak  an'  de  eyes  dim,  but  de  soul  gits  younger 
es  it  grows  older,  de  ole  man  gits  mo'  lak  er  boy 
es  he  goes  down  de  hill.  Nachur  kinder  seems 
to  ease  us  off  de  stage  ob  life  gently,  lak  she  fotch 
us  in.  In  our  ole  age  we  gits  young  ergin  an' 
childish  an'  happy.  We  eben  try  ter  kick  up 
our  heels  ergin  an'  be  funny  an'  'magine  we 
gwinter  lib  er  long,  long  time  yit.  Sho'  me  de 
ole  man — don't  keer  how  ole  he  am — dat  don't 
spec'  ter  lib  at  least  ten  yeahs  longer.  Dat's 
nachur's  way  ob  foolin'  us,  sah  ;  dat's  her  way 
ob  puttin'  her  babies  ter  sleep — de  las'  long  sleep. 
Puttin'  'em  ter  sleep  contented  lak,  an'  happy, 
thinkin'  dey'll  wake  in  the  mornin'  an'  be  young 
ergin." 

"  1  tell  you,  sah,  ole  Marster's  mighty  good  to 

us.     He  could  er  put  us  heah  widout  hope,  ef  he 

had  wanted  to  ;  he  could  er  put  us  heah  widout 

sweet  dreams,  widout  vishuns  ob  er  better  wurl, 

5° 


from  Tennessee 

wUout  dat  onpurchasabul  feelin'  dat  cums  to  us 
when  we  knows  we  dun  right — wiclout  eben  de 
blessed  Book.  But  he  didn't.  An'  so  we  dream 
on  to  de  last  an'  hope  to  de  last,  an'  b'leeve  we 
gwinter  be  better  an'  stronger  to-morrer  an'  cling 
to  de  Good  Book  fur  de  sweetes'  promis'  ob  dem 
all — de  promis'  dat  we'll  lib  ergin. 

"  No,  sab,"  he  continued,  as  he  threw  off  his 
solemn  tone  and  brightened  up  a  bit,  "  no,  sah, 
sho'  es  you  lib  right  you'll  git  younger  es  you 
gro'  older.  Why,  sah,  de  oldes'  man  or  woman 
in  de  wurl  am  de  middle-aiged,  chillun-raisin', 
money-makin',  bizness-wurryin',  ain't-got-no- 
time  to-eat,  folks.  Dey  am  de  ole  ones,  far  older 
den  de  gray  haids  lak  me  dat  dun  laid  erside  all 
dese  heah  trashy  things  an'  got  to  romatin'  ergin. 

"  Why,  whut  you  reckon  I  wus  thinkin'  erbout 
to-night?"  asked  the  old  man  as  he  looked 
sheepishly  around  at  the  doorway,  in  which  sat 
Aunt  Dinah,  his  wife.  This  dusky  lady  had  been 
listening  apparently  unconcerned  at  the  old  man's 
narration,  but  filling  the  still  night  air  with 
fragrant  breath  of  "  deer  tongue  and  Williamson 
leaf"  as  the  smoke  curled  up  from  her  newly 
made  cob-pipe. 

"  Thinkin'  about  marrying  again  ?"  I  asked,  as 
I  glanced  suspiciously  at  Aunt  Dinah,  and  then  I 
watched  her  shuffle  her  feet  disdainfully  as  she 
stopped  smoking  long  enough  to  remark  lacon- 
ically :  "  Jes'  let  'im  go  on,  young  Marster — let 


Songs  and  Stories 

'im  superseed,"  she  said  as  she  followed  her 
usua!  custom  of  throwing  in  some  big  word  sound- 
ing something  like  the  one  she  was  trying  to  use. 
"  Let  'im  superseed.  He  has  dese  fits  ebry  now 
an'  den  an'  de  bes'  way  ter  stop  'im  am  to  let  'im 
run  down  lak  you  hafter  do  dese  heah  old-fash- 
uned  clock's.  Whut  er  indellibul  wurkin'  appler- 
atus  he'd  be,"  she  said  ironically,  "  ef  he  wus 
only  es  game  in  der  tater  patch  as  he  am  in  de 
moonlight." 

The  old  man  glanced  sorrowfully  at  the  door- 
way and  continued:  "  Ternight  I  jes'  gotter 
thinkin'  erbout  my  young  Mistis,  Miss  Kitty,  de 
younges'  dorter  ob  Marse  Robert  Young ;  de 
chile  ob  his  old  aige  by  his  secon'  wife,  de  prooty 
leetle  Yankee  guv' ness  clat  cum  down  from  Bos- 
ting.  She  cum  down  ter  teach  ole  Marster's 
yudder  gals,  but  she  got  ter  lubbin'  her  skolers 
so  she  married  dey  daddy  so  she  cud  be  a  mammy 
to  'em.  Ain't  it  strange  how  wimmen  folks  will 
git  up  enny  kinder  excuse  to  marry  on  ?  Why, 
I've  knowed  'em  ter  marry  fur  indergestion  an' 
clat  tired  feelin',"  laughed  the  old  darkey,  as  he 
winked  at  me  and  then  glanced  at  the  cabin  door. 

"Wai,  she  made  'em  er  good  mudder  an'  ole 
Marster  er  good  wife  ef  she  did  lub  cod-fish  balls 
an'  baked  beans.  An'  her  dorter.,  Miss  Kitty  ! 
Why  man  erlive,  dat  Yankee  cross  on  our  Sud- 
dern  stock  jes'  got  up  de  prooties'  gal  dat  eber 
said  '  Yas '  to  young  lub.  She  had  all  de  brains 


from  Tennessee 

an'  intellec'  ob  her  mammy's  side  \vid  all  de 
grace  an'  beauty  an'  high  breedin'  an'  lily-com- 
plecshun  ob  us  Youngus.  Her  mammy  was 
allers  dead  in  fur  edercashun,  an'  so  ole  Marster 
saunt  an'  got  'er  three  guv'nesses  ;  one  fur  eder- 
cashun, one  fur  musicashun,  an'  one  fur  dress- 
ercashun  ;  an'  my  !  how  she  did  shine  when  she 
growed  up  !  She  was  de  prooties'  gal  dat  eber 
trod  blue  grass,  de  queenlies'  one  dat  eber 
gethered  up  her  trail,  an'  de  sweetes'  one  dat 
eber  pulled  er  rose  in  er  golden  bower  whar  de 
hunnysuckers  gethers  de  dew-draps  an'  de  turkey 
dove  sings  in  de  moonlight.  I  wus  de  kerridge 
driver  an'  kep'  de  horses,  an'  es  I  useter  drive 
her  about  an'  see  her  wid  all  her  grace  an'  beauty 
git  in  an'  out  de  kerridge,  1  tell  you  I  wus  thank- 
ful it  wus  me  dat  had  charge  ob  her  an'  not  my 
ancestors  in  Affercur — fur  dey  would  hab  et  'er 
up,  thinldn'  she  wus  sum  kinder  plumidged  bird 
ob  de  golden  pheasant  tribe. 

"  Endurin'  her  sebenteenth  yeah,  Marse  Rob- 
ert's half-brother  died  in  Alerbama  an'  lef  Marse 
Robert  gyardeen  fur  his  son,  Henry  Robert  Little- 
ton, an'  he  soon  cum  out  to  Tennessee  'kose  he 
had  no  close  kin  libin',  an'  Marse  Robert  wanted 
to  raise  'im,  though  he  was  nineteen  dat  fall.  An' 
lie  wus  er  fine  young  man,  sah;  es  gentle  es  er  gal 
an'  es  nervy  es  a  red-bird  in  de  settin'  time.  Ef 
by  accerdent  he  got  in  de  wrong,  he'd  mighty  nigh 
stan'  ennythin'  to  git  right  ergin  ;  but  onc't  in  de 
53 


Songs  and  Stories 

right  he'd  fight  fur  er  eye-lash.  Why,  I  onc't 
seed  'im  'pollergize  to  de  oberseer,  who  \vus  allers 
oberbearin'  an'  cussin',  'stead  ob  actin'.  Jes' 
think  ob  it  !  'pollergixe  to  de  oberseer  !  'kose  he 
happen  not  to  know  de  oberseer's  orders  one  day 
an'  saunt  one  ob  de  han's  on  ernudder  erran'. 
T'would  er  made  no  diff' rence  ef  he  hadn't  'poll- 
ergized  fur  it,  butcommon  trash  can't  stan'  quality 
an'  allers  mistakes  gentleness  fur  lak  ob  grit,  an' 
Marse  Henry's  humbleness  made  de  po'  white 
trash  uppish  an'  he  snapped  out  dat  he  didn't 
spec  no  better  raisin'  from  er  boy  dat  had  cum 
frum  sech  er  cracker  state  es  Alerbama — hoo— 
hoo — e! — dat's  es  fur  es  he  got — -Marse  Henry 
knocked  'im  down  three  times  befo'  he  cud  git 
up  onc't. 

"  Bringin'  two  sech  nachurs  togedder  under  de 
same  roof  am  mighty  nigh  de  same  thing  es  mix- 
in'  shampain  an'  red  lips,  an'  I  seed  de  thing  wus 
fixed  up  betwixt  'em  befo'  ole  Marster  caught  on 
an'  saunt  de  boy,  as  he  called  'im,  to  Ferginny 
to  finish  his  aigucashun.  But  dat  didn't  do  no 
good  ;  en ny body  dat  had  eber  seed  Miss  Kitty 
en'  cud  ferget  'er  ain't  de  kinder  folks  de  gods 
lub  ter  kill  young,  an'  arter  he  ben  dar  fo'  yeahs 
an'  finish  his  aigucashun  heah  he  cum  back  to 
Tennessee  ergin.  'Yore  haid's  lebel,  Marse 
Henry,'  sez  I  to  myself;  '  de  right  kinder  man 
don't  fall  in  lub  but  onc't  an'  den  he  strikes  de 
pyore  metal  or  cle  wuss  pocket  ob  flint  dat  eber 
54 


from  Tennessee 

turned  er  pick  !  An'  in  yore  case  ef  you  ain't 
struck  de  pyore  metal  I'm  black  !' 

"  An'  I've  heurd  ob  Romeo  an'  Greece  an'  all 
dem  ole  lubbers,"  said  the  old  man  learnedly, 
"  but  de  way  dese  heah  two  young  folks  lubbed 
one  ernudder  befo'  de  summer  went  by  wus 
ernuf  to  make  all  de  yudder  aiges  take  in  deir 
signs.  Dat's  de  nappies'  time  ob  eberybody's 
life,  ennyhow,"  he  soliloquized  :  "We  ain't  got 
much  brains  at  dat  stage,  'kose  Nachur  didn't 
intend  us  ter  hab  'em  ;  ef  we  did  we  wouldn't 
git  kotch  in  de  trap  she  sets  fur  us — de  trap  ob 
matermony.  Arter  we  gits  kotched,"  said  the 
old  man  as  he  shook  all  over  with  quiet  laughter 
— "  arter  we  git  kotched,  we  lak  de  fox  in  de 
fable  dat  got  hees  tail  in  de  steel  trap — we  kerry 
it  roun'  wid  us  ebrywhar  we  go  an'  make  out  lak 
hits  des  whut  we  wus  lookin'  fur  all  de  time,  an' 
er  butiful  ornerment— but  Lor,  hit  pinches  mighty 
hard  all  de  same." 

(A  vigorous,  jerky  puffing  in  the  doorway  and 
clouds  of  outraged  smoke  went  up  to  the  stars  !) 

"An'  whut  you  reckon  my  idee  ob  Heaben 
am  ?"  queried  the  old  man  emphatically.  "  Hit's 
er  blessed  place  way  up  on  sum  star,  whar  de 
Good  Marster  Mows  us  ter  fall  in  lub  ebry  day, 
but  neber  'lows  us  ter  spile  de  dream  by  marryin' 
— fur  dat  would  sho'  bust  up  Heaben  !"  he  said 
as  he  shot  another  look  at  the  doorway.  "An' 
I  kin  prove  it  by  de  Scripturs  deysef,"  he  con- 
55 


Songs  and  Stories 

tinned.  "  Don't  de  Scripturs  say  'dar  shall  be 
no  marryin'  nur  gibbin'  in  marriage?'  an'  don't 
dey  also  teech  us  dat  up  in  Heaben  we  will  all 
lub  one  ernudder  ?  Wei  jes'  put  dem  two  argy- 
ments  togedder  an'  tell  me  how  you  gwinter  git 
erround  'em,  sah.  Don't  dat  prove  de  p'int  ?" 

"  I  don't  wish  to  get  around  them,"  I  laughed, 
"they  seem  to  be  good  doctrine;  but  go  on 
with  your  story." 

"Wai,  sah,  de  match  wus  de  talk  ob  de  coun- 
try, as  bein'  de  mos'  suiterabules'  one  dat  eber 
wus. 

"  Marse  Henry  an'  Miss  Kitty  !  When  I  thinks 
ob  dem  ternight  I  kin  see  de  dew  on  de  young 
grass  ob  life,  de  roses  in  de  gyarden  ob  lub,  an' 
de  stars  in  de  skies  ob  happiness.  1  smell  de 
flowers  ob  de  past  ergin  lak  dey  uster  smell  when 
I  wus  young.  1  see  de  long  walks  in  de  shade 
ob  de  ellums  an'  de  oaks,  an'  de  breaf  ob  de 
prim-roses  floats  ober  de  gyarden.  I  see  de  boss- 
back  rides  when  de  flutter  ob  Miss  Kitty's  ribbon 
meant  de  flag  ob  de  yunerverse  to  Marse  Henry, 
an'  de  perfume  on  her  bit  ob  lace  han'kerchief 
brought  up  de  sweetes'  fragrance  frum  de  depths 
ob  hees  hart.  Her  eyes  wus  so  bright  dey'd 
bring  him  up  befo'  day,  lak  de  sun  befo'  its  time, 
an'  her  cheek's  wus  es  butiful  es  de  mohnin' 
skies  erbloom. 

"  O  dar  am  lubs  an'  lubs,  but  dar  am  only  jes' 
one  fus'  lub  fur  us  all.  De  make-shifts  arter 
56 


from  Tennessee 

dat  am  lak  try  in'  to  make  de  red  rosebud  bloom 
twict." 

"  But  sumhow  ruther  o!e  Marster  had  his  haid 
sot  on  er  young  lawyer  in  town  dat  dey  called 
Capiir  Estes,  dat  wuz  also  courtin'  Miss  Kitty, 
lak  ebrybody  else  dat  seed  'er,  an'  ole  Marster 
looked  wid  mo'  favor  on  his  suit  dan  he  did  on 
Marse  Henry's,  on  account  ob  de  relashunship 
betwixt  'em.  But  dar's  where  ole  Marster  missed 
it,  an'  de  onlies'  time  I  urver  knowed  'im  to  miss 
it.  But  dis  feller  wuz  slick,  an'  he  done  it  all 
wid  de  leetle  insterment  in  'is  jaw.  He  was  allers 
talkin'  erbout  de  constertooshunal  perogatives  ob 
de  divine  right  ob  freemen'  an'  er  makin'  law 
speeches  in  de  Jestis  court  an'  er  windin'  up  wid 
'my  country,  my  muther,  my  Gord,  an'  my 
filler  citizens,'  fer  he  was  sech  a  demijug  he 
allers  put  de  citizens  highes'.  Ef  he  wasn't  free 
wind  at  de  rasho  ob  16  ter  i,  an'  de  onlimited 
coinage  ob  brass,  my  name  ain't  Washingtun  ! 
Why,  he  cu'd  talk  on  fo'  things  at  de  same  time, 
pocket  er  fee  on  bof  sides  ob  er  case,  an'  keep 
one  eye  on  de  bar-room  an'  de  yuther  on  de 
church  steeple.  He  cu'd  play  poker  lak  er  gam- 
bler, drink  lak  er  Kansas  drought,  an'  pray  lak 
er  country  deacon.  He  cu'd  get  drunk  lak  er 
sinner,  an'  yit  stan'  highes'  es  er  saint  ;  mak  lub 
wid  one  eye  to  Miss  Kitty  an'  yit  keep  de  yuther 
solemnly  sot  fur  ole  Marster  lak  St.  Paul  watchin' 
fur  revolushuns  ! 

57 


Songs  and  Stories 

"  But  de  thing  soon  cum  to  er  end.  Marse 
Henry  was  too  honerbul  to  court  a  gal  vvidout  her 
daddy's  say-so,  an'  de  Chewsday  befo'  Easter 
him  an'  ole  Marster  had  er  long  talk  in  de  library. 
Den  Marse  Henry  cum  out  sorry  lak  an'  solemn 
an'  he  tells  me  ter  take  extry  keer  ob  Jap — dat 
wuz  his  haf-thurrerbred  saddle  boss — an'  ter  rub 
Mm  down  well,  an'  ter  feed  'im  oats,  not  er  grain 
ob  cohn.  'Fur,'  sez  he,  'Wash,  I'm  agwine 
erway  furebber  !' 

"  An'  dat  night  I  seed  er  ghost  !  Hit  wuz  jes' 
arter  Marse  Henry  started  off.  I  hilt  his  sturrup 
an'  beg  'im  wid  tears  in  my  eyes  not  ter  leab  us  : 
'Who  gwi'  he'p  me  take  keer  ob  de  bosses  now 
an'  pick  out  de  yearlin's  fur  de  spring  races  ? 
Who  dis  nigger  gwi'  foller  arter  de  houn's  in  de 
spring  an'  de  patterges  in  de  fall  ?  Who  gwi'  be 
de  mohnin  sun  ob  de  place  in  de  strength  ob  his 
truth  an'  honer,  an'  de  sweet  moonlight  in  his 
tender  senterment  an'  simplicty  ?  Who  gwi'  set 
de  'zample  'mong  de  young  folks  fur  dat  conshus 
quietness  dat  cums  wid  de  knowledge  ob  game- 
ness  dat  am  afeered  ob  nothin'  but  doin'  wrong  ? 
O,  Marse  Henry  !  Marse  Henry,  we  can't  let 
you  go  !' 

"I  hilt  on  ter  his  sturrups  an'  beg  'im  ergin 
an'  ergin,  fur  sumhow  1  felt  lak  I'd  nurver  see 
'im  enny  mo'.  But  he  only  grip  my  han'  ergin 
an'  ergin,  an'  look  at  me  good-by — good — by — 
wid  his  eyes,  fur  he  cudden't  talk,  an'  rode  off 


from  Tennessee 

in  de  gloom  down  de  big  row  ob  ellums.  An' 
dars  whar  I  seed  er  ghost  !  De  fus'  one  I  eber 
seed  !  Fur  es  I  stood  watchin'  'im  wid  sumpin' 
lak  er  pound  weight  in  my  throat,  an'  mighty 
ni^h  a  ton  in  my  heart,  I  seed  dat  ghost  plain  es 
I  eober  seed  ennything  !  He  hed  got  nearly  to 
de  gate  in  de  dark  ob  de  big  obershadowin'  trees 
whar  de  new  moon  wuz  tangled  up  in  de  lim's 
(sho'  sign  er  bad  luck  !)  when  out  slip  de  ghost 
frum  behind  er  big  tree  an'  I  lakter  drap  in  my 
tracks  !  De  lump  went  down  in  my  throat,  but 
great  Gawd,  how  my  hair  riz  !  De  ghost  wuz 
dressed  in  er  winclin' sheet  ob  white  an'  wid  long 
hair  hangin'  down  er  back,  an'  she  skeered  Jap 
so  he  bolts  an'  snorts  ;  an'  she  muster  skeered 
Marse  Henry  too,  fur  I  seed  'im  stoop  down  ter 
grab  dat  ghost  an'  sabe  hissef,  an' — an' — den — 
fo'  Gawd  !  I  kno'  yo'  won't  beliebe  it,  but 
Marse  Henry  jes'  kissed  dat  ghost  time  an'  ergin 
an'  1  heurd  'im  say  '  furebber  my  darling,'  er 
sumpin'  dat  sounded  lak  it,  an'  den  Jap's  gallup 
clattered  up  de  pike  an'  de  young  Marster  dat  I 
lub  so  well  wuz  gone  !" 

"How  yo'  know  dat  wuz  er  gal-ghost  ef  yo' 
nurver  seed  one  befo'  ?"  came  mercilessly  from 
the  doorway.  "  O  you'll  be  inexpressibul  in  de 
tater-patch  to-morrer  !"  But  the  old  man  had  not 
been  married  fifty  years  and  failed  to  learn  the 
first  lesson  of  matrimony,  so  he  said  nothing  but 
sorrowfully  continued  : 

59 


Songs  and  Stories 

"  De  naixt  thing  we  heurd,  Marse  Henry  \vuz 
way  down  in  Fluridy,  an'  de  naixt  he  lied  jined 
General  Lopez  wid  de  five  hundred  Americans  dat 
went  ober  ter  he'p  de  Cubans  fight  fer  liberty. 
An'  dey  got  er  fighter  when  dey  got  M;vse 
Henry  !  Hit  was  bred  in  Mm,  fur  it  cum  jes'  es 
nachul  fur  us  Scotch-Irish  ter  fight  fur  liberty— 
ennybody's  liberty  an'  enny  kinder  liberty — es 
it  is  fer  er  game  cock  ter  crow  when  he  sees  de 
fus'  beam  ob  daylight. 

"  Fur  Liberty,"  said  the  old  man,  "  is  de  day- 
light ob  humanity  !  An'  while  I'm  on  dat  sub- 
jec',"  he  said  warmly,  "1  jes'  wanter  go  on 
record  'bout  dese  Cuban  fights  :  Dat  wuz  forty- 
five  years  ergo,  an'  I  heurn  tell  dese  Cubans  am 
makin'  de  same  fight  now  dey  did  den.  I  heah 
de  papers  call  'em  rebels,  but  I  tell  yo',  sonny, 
dat  am  er  wrong  name.  Ef  dey  succeeds  de 
wurl  will  call  'em  patriots  ! 

"Fur  rebel,"  he  said,  "is  de  name  dat 
tyranny  gibs  to  de  onsuccessful  patriot  ! 

"An'  hit  makes  my  blood  bile,"  he  said,  as 
he  grew  excited,  arose  from  his  chair,  and  threw 
his  banjo  down,  "  hit  makes  my  blood  bile  when 
I  sees  how  we  set  back  on  our  dignerty,  burn 
fiah-crackers,  cellerbrate  de  fourth  ob  July,  an' 
scream  fur  de  bird  ob  freedom  twell  we  hab  er 
case  ob  kronic  sore-throat,  an'  den  call  de  folks 
dat  am  makin'  de  same  fight  we  made,  rebels. 
An'  wussen  dat;  set  right  still  aholdin'  to  de 
60 


from  Tennessee 

tail  ob  our  eagle — (fur  fear  he'll  fly  ober  dar  I 
reckon) — an'  fusin'  to  help  'em.  We,  who  fit  fur 
luss  dan  one-tenth  dese  people  hafter  stan',  now 
arter  we  git  strong  an'  pow'ful,  we  set  back  an' 
see  dem  make  de  same  fight  we  made,  an'  feered 
all  de  time  to  open  our  moufs,  lest  we  take  er 
bad  cold  ! 

"Or  ef  we  does  we  puts  our  han's  ober  our 
harts  an'  bows  an'  scrapes  erroun'  dat  little  nest 
ob  royal  crows,  dat  useter  be  Spanish  eagles,  an' 
talk  erbout  de  curt'sy  ob  Nashuns  an'  all  dat! 
Shame,  I  say  !" 

As  he  sat  down  after  delivering  this  rebuke, 
his  voice  was  peculiarly  sad  as  he  continued  : 
"But  you've  read  history  an'  kno'  how  dat  fight 
ended.  Marse  Henry  beat  'em  time  an'  ergin, 
but  arter  erwhile  de  leetle  ban'  was  oberpow- 
erecl  by  de  whole  Spanish  army,  an' — wal" — he 
wiped  away  a  tear — -"dem  dat  didn't  die  in  de 
fight  wus  hung  up  lak  clogs  !  All  but  Marse  Henry 
— brave,  generus,  noble  Marse  Henry  !  De 
papers  said  dat  he  erlone  wuz  shot,  dat  he  gib  de 
Spanish  offercers  ole  Jap,  de  horse  he  lubbed  so 
well,  ef  he'd  shoot  'im  lak  er  sojer,  an'  not  hang 
'im  lak  er  spy  !  An'  dey  shot  'im  fer  doin'  whut 
wuz  bred  in  'im  ter  do,  when  two  ob  his  gran'- 
daddies  follered  de  flag  ob  Green's  brigade  in 
No'th  Calliner,  or  helped  whip  ole  Ferguson  at 
King's  Mountain. 

"  Po'  Marse  Henry  !  Wal,  sah,  de  news  lakter 
61 


Songs  and  Stories 

kill  us.  Hit  hurt  eben  ole  Marster,  fur  I  uster 
heah  him  vvalkin'  de  library  flo'  an'  talkin'  erbout 
it  to  hissef :  '  De  boy  wuz  too  high  strung,'  he 
would  say.  '  I  did  not  want  'im  to  leab  us.  I 
had  no  idea  he  wuz  gwine  on  dat  fool  filler- 
buster  !'  An'  den  he  would  storm  erroun'  dat 
room  an'  git  hot  under  de  collar  as  he  thort  how 
contrary  to  de  rules  ob  war  dey  had  acted  in 
shootin'  Marse  Henry,  an'  den  all  at  onct  I  see 
Mm  tak  down  de  ole  sword  his  daddy  wore  at 
King's  Mountain,  an'  es  he  fotch  it  down  wid  a 
bang  on  de  library  table  lak  he  thort  de  whole 
Spanish  army  wuz  dar,  he  sez :  '  Dam  dem 
Spanish  dogs  !  Dey  am  nuffin'  but  hired  cowards, 
an'  I  cud  tak  er  regerment  ob  Tennessee  troops 
lak  dat  brave  boy  an'  gib  de  Union  de  leetle 
islan'  es  a  birf-day  gif '.  Dam  'em,  I  say  !'  O, 
ole  Marster  wuz  sho'  mad,  an'  when  he  got  mad 
in  er  righteous  cause  he  cud  mak  Unkle  Toby 
ershamed  ob  his  cussin'  record  ! 

"An'  Miss  Kitty! — I  jes'  can't  talk  erbout  it 
widout  chokin'  up.  Fur  two  yeahs  she  went  in 
deep  mournin',  his  own  widder  cudden't  er  tuck 
on  wusser,  fur  she  nurver  smiled  an'  noboddy 
wuz  'lowed  ter  menshun  Marse  Henry's  name, 
hit  seemed  to  'feet  her  so  ! 

"  But  Time  am  Sorrow's  doctah,"  sagely  con- 
tinued the  old  man,  "an'  his  poultice  will  draw 
out  de  sharpes'  pain  ! 

"Five  long  yeahs  passed,  an'  Estes  had  got 
62 


from  Tennessee 

high  up  in  pollertics  ;  he  started  out  on  er  brass 
basis  an'  went  frum  postmaster  ter  Congress. 
He'd  er  gone  ter  Heaben  ef  he  could  er  worked 
it  through  er  pollitercal  convenshun  ! 

"  An'  now,  whut  you  reckon  ?  De  news  cum 
dat  he  gwine  ter  marry  Miss  Kitty — an'  sho' 
'nuff — hit's  true  ! 

"  When  I  foun'  hit  out,  I  gin  up  ail  faith  in  man- 
kind in  gin'ral  an'  womankind  in  perticler.  But 
den  I  felt  sorry  fur  Miss  Kitty  when  I  larnt  dat 
she  wuz  jes'  gwine  ter  marry  'im  to  please  'er  old 
daddy — fur  she'd  do  ennything  honorbul  fur  ole 
Marster- — an'  dat  she  tole  Estes  she  would  marry 
'im  but  dat  she  would  allers  lub  Marse  Henry. 
She  nurver  tole  me,  mind  you,  but  one  night  I 
seed  it  plainer  den  wards  kin  tell.  1  seed  it  an' 
knowed  'er  heart  wuz  in  Marse  Henry's  grabe. 
I  seed  er  ghost  ergin,  but  hit  wuz  Marse  Henry's 
ghost  dis  time. 

"  Dis  wuz  de  Chewsdy  night  befo'  Easter,  jes' 
five  yeahs  to  de  night  dat  Marse  Henry  went 
away.  De  big  weddin'  wuz  ter  cum  off  de  naixt 
night  an'  de  house  wuz  full  ob  comp'ny  an'  cakes. 
Miss  Kitty  nurver  smiled,  but  hed  gone  erbout  all 
day  lak  de  Greek  maiden,  spotless  an'  pyore,  dat 
de  skule  books  tell  us  dey  useter  kill  to  de  wicket 
idols  in  de  ole  times  befo'  de  gatt-s  ob  Troy. 

"  Dat  night  I  had  gone  ter  sleep  thinkin'  erbout 
Marse  Henry,  an'  how  Jap  useter  stan'  in  de  fust 
stall  naixt  to  de  door ;  how  Marse  Henry  allers 
63 


Songs  and  Stories 

useter  cum  whistlin'  outen  de  house  when  he 
wanted  me  to  saddle  Jap,  an'  how  we  useter  talk 
erbout  de  hosses,  an'  go  to  de  races  an'  hooraw 
ef  our  hoss  won.  I  wuz  jes'  thinkin'  how  open 
an'  manly  he  wuz,  an'  how  fur  erpart  he  wuz 
frum  dat  Estes  es  de  two  ends  ob  Eternity,  an' 
den,  whut  you  reckon  ?  I  heurn  Marse  Henry 
cum  outen  de  house  lak  he  did  in  de  days  ob  old. 
I  heurd  'im  cum  down  to  de  stable  do',  an'  pop 
his  ridin'  whup  es  er  signal  fer  me  ter  bring  up 
Jap,  an'  den  slash  his  whup  on  his  leg  while  he 
waited — jes'  lak  he  useter  do  hundreds  ob  times 
befo',  an'  all  so  nachul  lak,  jes'  lak  he  wuz  gwinter 
ride  ole  Jap  ergin  arter  de  noun's.  An'  den,  sah, 
I  heurd  his  voice  jes'  es  plain  es  I  urver  heurn 
annything  an'  jes'  lak  he  useter  say,  only  hit 
seemed  so  faint  an'  fur  erway  :  '  Hello,  Wash, 
saddle  Jap  !  It's  time  we  wuz  takin'  er  han'  in 
de  fun  !'  I  heurd  it  so  plain,  I  jumped  outen  de 
bed,  an'  said  es  I  rushed  to  open  de  do',  '  I'm 
cumin',  Marse  Henry,  I'm  cumin'  !'  But  when  I 
open  de  do'  I  wuz  so  diserpinted  I  lak  ter  cried, 
fur  I  cudden't  see  nuffm'  but  de  trees  in  de  dim 
moonlight,  an'  I  heurd  nuffm'  but  de  hoot  ob  de 
owl  ober  in  de  woods.  I  felt  so  cuis  I  cudden't 
go  ter  sleep,  fur  I  wuz  sho'  Marse  Henry's  spirrit 
wuz  summers  erbout,  an'  dat  he  cudden't  rest  in 
his  grabe  on  ercount  ob  de  weddin',  an'  I  jes' 
walked  down  to  de  gate  wliar  I  last  seed  'im  five 
yeah  befo'  go  down  de  road,  nurver  to  cum  back 
64 


from  Tennessee 

enny  mo';  eb'rything  wuz  so  nachul  I  thought  I 
heurd  Jap's  footfalls  ergin,  an'  den! — whut  wuz 
dat  I  seed  all  dressed  in  white  wid  her  long  hair 
hangin'  down  her  back  an'  kneelin'  down  under 
de  tree  whar  she  last  seed  Marse  Henry  erlive, 
an'  sobbin'  lak  her  hart  wud  break  ?  De  same 
ghost  I  seed  dat  night  five  years  ergo.  I  cudden't 
stan'  an'  look  at  sech  sacred  grief  as  dat,  so  I 
went  in  my  house  thinkin'  maybe  de  las'  one 
wusn't  a  ghost  sho'  'nuff,  but  jes'  Miss  Kitty 
prayin'  at  de  tree  she  last  seed  Marse  Henry  er- 
live an'  weepin'  de  las'  time  she  cud  honorably 
weep  fur  'im. 

"  De  naixt  day  was  de  big  day,  but  I  cudden't 
stay  dar  an'  see  dat  sacrilege.  'Sides  dat,  I  felt 
cuis  'bout  seein'  Marse  Henry's  ghost,  an'  I 
knowed  sumpin'  wuz  gwine  happen.  I  knowed 
it  fur  sho'  when  I  went  in  de  kitchen  next  mohn- 
in'  an'  heurd  sister  Calline  tell  how  she  found  er 
screech  owl  in  Miss  Kitty's  room  dat  mohnin'. 
Sez  I  to  myself :  '  Dar !  I  knows  whut  gwinter 
happen  now.  Po'  innercent  angel  !  She'll  nur- 
ver  lib  twell  termorrow — but  thang  Gawd  fur  it, 
fur  dat  yudder  Screech  Owl  will  nurver  git  in  her 
room  !' 

"  But  when  I  went  to  de  stable,  dar  wuz  er- 
nudder  sign  :  Ole  Flint,  Marse  Henry's  ole  pet 
houn',  an'  de  bes'  one  dat  urver  smelt  er  deer 
track,  wuz  stone  dead  in  de  stall,  dead  frum  er 
snake  bite,  too  !  '  Dat's  dat  Estes  doin's  ergin,' 
5  65 


Songs  and  Stories 

sez  I.  '  Po'  innercent  Miss  Kitty  !'  An' de  cows 
wuz  pawin'  an'  lowin'  at  de  pastur  bars  !  Now 
eb'rybody  knows  dat  when  de  milk  cows  go  ter 
pawin'  an'  lowin'  in  de  mohnin'  befo'  brekfus, 
somebody  gwinter  die  befo'  night.  I  stood  eben 
dat,  but  I  gin  up  when  1  went  to  de  well  ter  draw 
water  fur  de  horses,  fur  dar  wuz  Miss  Kitty  jes' 
as  plain  es  she  cud  be,  laid  out  in  her  coffin  in 
her  bridal  dress  ! 

"  I  drapped  dat  bucket  an'  lit  out  frum  dar  ! 

"  An'  I  went  to  ole  Marster  an'  beg  'im  to  let 
me  go  down  to  de  lower  place,  five  miles  erway ; 
an'  I  went  to  de  lower  place,  five  miles  erway, 
an'  dar  I  staid  all  day  long  waitin'  fur  de  calam- 
erty  to  cum,  an'  groanin'  in  de  spirit  lak  de 
proffit  ob  ole  when  he  know  de  buterful  city 
gwinter  fall.  Fur  I  seed  Miss  Kitty  dead  jus'  es 
plain  es  I  see  you  ! 

"  O,  dat  wus  er  terribul  day,  an'  one  dat  I'll 
nurver  furgit,  an'  I  sot  dar  in  de  cabin  an'  fast- 
ed, an'  didn't  eat  nuffin  all  day,  an'  wrastled  wid 
de  spirit  in  prayer,  all  day  long. 

"  De  weddin'  wuz  ter  cum  off  at  nine  er  clock 
at  night.  I  wuz  settin'  in  de  cabin  do'  by  my- 
self ;  all  de  yudder  darkies  had  gone  to  de  big 
home  fur  de  weddin'  supper — but  I  didn't  wanter 
go  ;  I  hed  no  stummic  dat  night — I  wuz  all  heart, 
thinkin'  'bout  po'  Marse  Henry  an'  Miss  Kitty's 
fun'ral  dat  1  knovved  wuz  bleeged  ter  cum  ! 

"Jes'  es  de  clock  struck  nine,  I  heard  er  hoss 
66 


from  Tennessee 

cum  up  de  pike,  clatter,  clatter,  bipperty,  bipperty, 
bipperty,  an'  I  jumped  up  mighty  nigh  er  yard 
high! 

"I  knowed  de  soun'  ob  dem  feet!  I'd  kno' 
'em  in  er  million — dem  wuz  Jap's  feet,  an'  I 
hollered,  glory  hallyluyer  !  Befo'  I  knowed 
whether  ter  run  under  de  bed  or  out  on  de  pike 
— fur  I  wuz  sorter  skeered  an'  sorter  brave — er 
big,  strong,  fine  lookin'  man,  es  brown  es  er  young 
hick'ry  an'  sinewy  es  er  race  hoss,  pulled  up  his 
hoss,  covered  wid  sweat  an'  foam,  at  de  do'. 
Pulled  up  his  hoss  quick  lak  an'  nachul — too 
nachul  fur  dis  nigger,  fur  jes'  de  moshun  ob  de 
han'  fotch  de  tears  to  my  eyes — fur  dat  hoss  wuz 
Jap,  de  same  blood-lak,  cordy-legged,  big-nos- 
triled,  graceful  Jap  ob  old  ! 

"  An'  grate  Gawd  !  One  look  in  de  blue  eyes 
ob  de  rider,  de  fine  mouf,  de  frank,  manly  face, 
now  bronzed  an'  er  trifle  stern,  hit  wus  Marse 
Henry  !  Marse  Henry  ! 

"I  jumped  up  an'  sed,  '  O,  Marse  Henry, 
ghost  er  no  ghost,  I'm  gwinter  hug  you  !' — an'  I 
did,  hugged  him  an'  Jap,  too. 

"An'  Marse  Henry  laf  an'  sed  :  'Wash,  my 
boy,  I'm  no  ghost,  but  flesh  an'  blood,  an'  awful 
hongry  flesh  at  dat.  What  am  you  doin'  way 
down  heah  ?  Gib  us  sumpin'  ter  eat,  fur  I'm 
anxious  to  git  on  to  de  ole  place  an'  we  need 
sumpin'  to  brace  us  up.  Jap  an'  I  have  cum  over 
er  hundred  miles  sence  daylight,  an'  while  dat's 
67 


Songs  and  Stories 

no  long  ride  fur  us,  you  kno'  we  bleeged  ter  hab 
sumpin'  ter  run  on,'  he  sed  laffm'. 

"  Lor',  sonny,  you  jes'  orter  seed  me  hustle  er- 
roun'  !  An'  whiles  I  wuz  fixin'  'im  sumpin'  to 
eat,  he  tole  me  all  erbout  it,  how  he  bed  jined 
Lopez  an'  sailed  frum  Key  West,  an'  all  erbout 
de  fights  he  bed.  An'  he  sed  dat  he  wuz  de 
onlies'  one  left  ob  all  his  men,  an'  dat  he  owed 
his  life  to  Jap's  heels  an'  er  Spanish  gineral.  He 
sed  dat  when  he  stormed  Las  Pozas,  his  men  run 
ober  de  Spaniards  an'  whupped  'em  in  er  twinkle, 
an'  dat  sum  ob  his  men  begun  to  hang  de  Span- 
iards in  return  fur  hangin'  sum  ob  dairs  de  yeah 
befo',  but  when  he  foun'  it  out  he  tried  to  stop  it 
an'  he  run  in  an'  cut  down  de  Spanish  gineral 
dat  dey  had  hung  up,  but  dat  his  men  got  mad 
eben  wid  him  an'  mutinied  an'  he  bed  to  draw 
his  pistols  on  his  men  an'  cut  down  de  officer  at 
de  point  ob  his  guns,  'kase  he  sed  he  wan't  fight- 
in'  er  hangin'  war  but  er  civilized  war. 

"An'  be  sabed  de  officer's  life  an'  exchanged 
'im  an'  saunt  'im  home.  De  papers  wuz  right  in 
sayin' Marse  Henry  wuz  arterwards  oberpowered 
an'  bed  ter  surrender,  an'  de  dozen  er  two  left 
wuz  sentenced  to  be  hanged.  In  vain  Marse 
Henry  beg  'em  to  shoot  'em  lak  soljers,  but  dey 
hung  his  men  befo'  his  eyes,  an'  dey  wooder 
hung  him,  but  he  bribed  de  officer  in  charge  wid 
de  gift  ob  Jap  to  Mow  'im  to  be  shot  and  not 
hung  ! 

68 


from  Tennessee 

"  De  naixt  mohnin'  when  dey  led  Marse  Henry 
off  to  be  shot,  an'  when  he  wuz  er  mile  or  two 
frum  de  lines,  de  gineral  whose  life  he  hed  sabed 
wuz  waitin'  at  de  spot  fur  'im,  an'  commanded 
de  squad  to  halt,  an'  den  he  gib  Marse  Henry  his 
side-arms  an'  Jap,  dat  he  foun'  de  officer  wid,  an' 
he  sed  to  Marse  Henry :  '  Go  ;  you  sabed  my 
life  onct  at  de  risk  ob  yo'  own.  I  returns  de 
compliment.' 

"  An'  den  Marse  Henry  told  me  how  he  hed 
went  in  de  sugar  bizness  an'  made  er  fortune  an' 
now  he  cum  back  ergin  to  lib. 

"  '  But  dat  wuz  fo'  yeah  ago,  Marse  Henry,' 
sez  I  ;  '  Why  aint  you  cum  home  befo'  or  write 
us  dat  you  still  libin  ?'  An'  den  Marse  Henry's 
face  grew  dark  es  he  sed :  '  Bekase,  Wash, 
Unkle  Robert  wrote  me  befo'  de  war  wuz  ended 
dat  Kitty  wuz  married  to  Estes,  an' — ' 

"  '  Dat's  a  lie,  Marse  Henry,'  1  shouted,  es  I 
cum  to  my  senses  ergin  an'  thout  ob  Miss  Kitty 
fur  de  fust  time — '  dat's  er  lie  !  Ole  Marster 
didn't  write  no  sech  letter  es  dat  !  She  ain't 
married  yit  —  leastwise  —  dat  is  ter  say — O, 
Marse  Henry,  am  it  nine  erclock  yit  ?  An'  she 
nurver  will  be  fur  she's  boun'  ter  die  ternight, 
an'  I'm  waitin'  out  heah  to  kno'  when  to  go  to  de 
fun'ral — po'  innercentangell  !'  an'  I  'spec'  I  begun 
ter  cry. 

"  Marse  Henry  look  at  me  stern  lak,  an'  ax  me 
what  I  mean.  Den  I  went  back  an'  tole  'im  all, 
69 


Songs  and  Stories 

an'  I  seed  de  tears  run  down  his  cheeks  es  1  tole 
Mm  how  she  bed  loved  an'  suffered  all  dese  yeahs. 
An'  I  tole  Mm  'bout  de  ghost  scene  las'  night  an' 
how  she  sobbed  under  de  trees,  an'  as  I  tole  him 
I  seed  Mm  shake  all  over  lak  er  child  er  sobbin', 
an'  when  I  tole  him  'bout  de  nurver  failin'  death 
signs  I'd  seen  dis  mohnin',  an'  dat  I  'spec'  right 
now  she  dun  dead  er  married — 'twould  be  all  de 
same  to  her — he  vaulted  wid  one  leap  in  de  saddle 
an'  1  seed  Jap's  tail  fly  up  es  he  plunged  two 
spurs  in  his  side,  an'  es  he  shot  erway  in  de  night 
I  heurd  Mm  say  sorter  hard  lak  :  '  Foller  me, 
Wash,  fur  I'm  gwinter  take  er  hand  in  dat  fun'- 
ral  !' 

"  I  jumped  on  er  race  filly  ole  Marster  heel  in 
trainin'  at  de  lower  place,  an'  I  follered  Mm  wid 
my  heart  beatin'  er  drum  in  my  breast,  an'  de 
wind  playin'  er  fife  in  my  two  years  !  Lor',  sah, 
dat  filly  cud  fly  !  but  run  es  she  mout,  dar  sot 
Marse  Henry  allers  jes'  erhaid,  lookin'  lak  er 
statue  on  Jap  ;  an'  de  ole  boss  runnin'  lak  er 
swamp  buck  wid  de  pack  at  his  heels  !  Runnin', 
sah,  lak  he  knowed  whut  wuz  up  an'  dat  ten 
minnits  now  wuz  wurth  yeahs  termorrer !  An' 
ev'ry  now  an'  den  I'd  ketch  er  glimpse  ob  Marse 
Henry's  back  an'  heah  Mm  say:  'Grate  Gawd, 
ef  I  kin  only  git  dar  in  time  !' 

"NobodyMl  urver  b'leeve  it,"  continued  the 
old  man,  "but  we  broke  de  five-mile  recurd  dat 
night,  sho  !  An'  when  we  cum  to  de  house  it  wuz 
70 


from  Tennessee 

lit  up  frum  garret  to  cellar,  an'  I  cud  see  de  guests 
in  de  parlors  an'  halls  an'  heah  de  music  an'  de 
lafter.  But  es  I  rid  up  closter,  my  hart  sunk  in 
my  buzum,  an'  we  bofe  pulled  up  wid  er  jerk  ; 
fur  dar,  standin'  dar  in  de  light  ob  de  bay  winders 
wid  flowers  above  an'  belo'  an'  in  de  lace  ob 
de  curtains,  dar  stood  Miss  Kitty  !  An'  de 
orange  blossums  wuz  in  her  hair,  an'  a  man  wuz 

o  * 

by  her  side,  an'  dey  wuz  shakin'  han's  wid  de 
people. 

"  Grate  Gawd,  dey  wuz  married  ! 

"  I  looked  at  Marse  Henry,  spectin'  to  see  'im 
pale  an'  shaky  lak  I  wuz,  an'  mighty  nigh  ready 
ter  fall  down  offen  his  hoss,  but  dars  whar  I  ober- 
looked  de  thurrerbred  dat  wuz  in  'im,  an'  stead  ob 
bein'  pale,  de  lub  light  wuz  in  his  eyes,  but  he 
hed  dat  cuis  hard  smile  on  his  lips  datallers  made 
me  think  ob  de  cocked  hammer  ob  a  hair-trigger 
durringer. 

"  He  spurred  up  clost  to  me  an'  jes'  es  nachul 
lak  es  ef  he  wuz  tellin'  me  ter  saddle  Jap,  an'  jes' 
es  quiet  es  if  he  wuz  gwine  to  church,  he  sez  : 
'Wash,  be  keerful  now,  fur  you  may  sabe  er  life 
wid  er  level  haid.  I  will  ride  up  to  de  side  porch, 
jes'  whar  it  reaches  to  Jap's  saddle  skirts.  I 
mus'  speak  to  Kitty  once  mo'  befo'  I  go  back  to 
Cuba  foreber.  Slip  in  an'  tell  her  sum  one  wants 
to  see  her  quickly,  on  de  side  po'ch.  Go,  an' 
remember  your  haid  !' 

"  I  wuz  glad  ernuf  to  go.     All  de  sarvants  wuz 


Songs  and  Stories 

now  pourin'  in  to  shake  ban's  wid  Miss  Kitty, 
arter  de  white  folks  hed  shook,  an'  I  cum  in 
nacherly  wid  de  res'.  De  white  folks  hed  stood 
back  an'  wuz  watchin'  our  awkard  way,  an'  de 
room  wuz  full  ob  flowers  an'  sweet  sents  an' 
hansum  folks. 

"  But  Miss  Kitty  jes'  hanted  me — I  cudden't 
keep  my  eyes  off  en  her.  She  wuz  es  butiful  es 
truth  in  de  halls  ob  de  angels,  an'  yet  es  sad  es 
sorrow  at  de  grabe  ob  her  fust  born.  She  look 
lak  er  queen  bovvin'  right  an'  left,  an'  her  grace 
shone  lak  er  pillar  in  a  temple.  She  tried  her 
bes'  ter  smile  on  us  po'  niggers  dat  had  raised 
her  an'  lubbed  her  all  her  life,  but  de  smile  jes' 
flickered  'round  her  dark,  sad  eyes  lak  er  April 
sunbeam  tryin'  to  git  out  frum  behind  er  March 
cloud.  When  she  shuck  ban's  wid  me  I  seen  two 
tears  start  up  in  her  eyes,  lak  little  silver-side 
fish  dat  rise  to  de  surface  ob  de  lake  fur  air,  an' 
I  knowed  she  wuz  thinkin'  ob  Jap  an'  his  rider, 
an'  I  cudden't  stan'  it  no  longer  ;  I  jes'  stuck  my 
big  mouf  up  to  her  lily  bloom  ob  a  yeah  an'  tried 
to  say  it  easy,  but  it  seemed  to  me  de  folks  heurd 
it  ober  at  quartahs,  er  mile  erway  :  '  Gawd 
bless  yo',  Miss  Kitty,  honey  !  But  cum  out  on 
de  side  po'ch,  quick  !' 

"  Fur  er  secon'  she  looked  at  me  lak  she  thort 
I  wuz  crazy,  an'  den  I  tried  ergin,  steppin'  on  her 
butiful  dress  an'  little  white  slipper,  I  got  up  so 
close  an'  whispered  so  yearnestly  : 

72 


OLD  WASH. 


from  Tennessee 

"  '  Miss  Kitty  !  Miss  Kitty  !  !  fur  Gawd's  sake 
cum  out  on  de  side  po'ch,  quick  !' 

"She  nodded  her  haid,  an'  I  seed  she  thort 
sumbody  wuz  in  distress,  an'  es  I  went  out,  I  seed 
her  excuse  herself  to  de  guests  an'— an' — wal, 
de  feller  dat  wuz  standin'  in  de  winder  wid  'er, 
an'  den  she  gethered  her  trail  in  her  lef  han'  an' 
follered  me  out  es  stately  es  Pharo's  darter  fol- 
lered  de  niggers  ob  old." 

Here  the  old  man  paused,  and  a  look  of  triumph 
glinted  in  his  dim  eye,  as  he  said,  "  Dar  am  sum 
scenes  in  life  fixed  on  our  mem'ry  so  dey  git 
plainer  es  we  gro'  older,  an'  dis  wuz  one.  De 
happiness  ob  two  libes  wuz  at  stake,  an'  I  trim- 
bled  so  I  cudden't  think,  fur  I  knowed  a  wurd  too 
soon  or  too  late  or  out  ob  place  would  ruined 
eb'rything.  De  poppin'  ob  er  match  might  er 
brought  on  er  shootin'  an'  de  whinny  ob  a  black 
hoss  es  he  stood  blacker  in  de  night  mout  er 
turned  er  weddin'  inter  er  fun'ral. 

"  I  glanced  at  de  side  po'ch — dar  sot  er  black 
hossman  on  er  steed  es  black  es  he  wuz.  Noter 
muscle  moved,  but  1  seed  two  steel-blue  eyes 
shine  eben  in  de  darkness.  Den  out  cum  Miss 
Kitty,  so  nachul  lak,  an'  soft  an'  easy  : 

"  '  What  is  it,  Wash  ;  who  wishes  to  see  me?' 

(<  I  p'inted  to  de  hossman.    Den  I  heurd  her  step 

es  she  walked   ercross  to  de  shadder,  an'  den  I 

heurd  er  voice    cum    outer  de  shadder  :    '  Oh, 

Kitty,  my  darlin',  have  you  indeed  forgotten  me?' 

73 


Songs  and  Stories 

"To  my  dyin'  day  I'll  see  her  es  she  heser- 
tated,  tried  to  advance,  stopped,  staggered,  an' 
fell  into  de  outstretched  arms  ob  de  hossman,  es 
she  exclaimed  pitifully  :  '  Dear  hart,  I  tole  them 
all  de  time  I  wuz  yores  !' 

"  An'  whut  you  reckon  Marse  Henry  dun  ? 
He  kissed  dat  man's  wife  scanlus,  time  an'  ergin, 
an'  stead  ob  spurrin'  erway  wid  her  lak  I  spected 
to  see  'im  do,  an'  lak  ennybody  else  wooder  dun, 
he  jes'  walked  wid  'er,  dead  fainted  es  she  wuz, 
right  inter  de  parlor  whar  dey  all  wuz,  an'  laid  her 
gently  down  on  a  sofer,  an'  den  he  turned  'round 
lak  er  majah  gineral  reviewin'  troops,  an'  he 
said  :  '  Unkle  Robert,  I  have  a  word  to  say  heah  !' 

"Wai,  sah,  'mazement  wan't  de  wurd.  De 
wimmin  screamed  an'  de  men  looked  lak  dey 
wanted  to.  Eben  ole  Marster  cudden't  do  nuffin' 
but  stare.  Estes  cum  to  fust  an'  made  er  quick 
movement  to  git  to  de  sofer  whar  Miss  Kitty 
wuz,  quiet  es  er  spirit.  But  when  Marse  Henry 
seed  'im,  his  eyes  flashed  lak  two  stars,  an'  I 
dodged  my  haid  spectin'  to  heah  er  pistol  shot 
naixt,  but  I  didn't,  only  dis  frum  Marse  Henry, 
'an  it  cum  from  'im  lak  er  battery,  es  he  laid  one 
ban'  on  er  instrument  dat  bed  bin  all  through  de 
Cuban  fight : 

"  '  Stan'  whar  you  am,  sah  !  fur  I'm  heah  to 
settle  wid  you  fust  !' 

"  An' den  he  tunned  loose.  Gawd,  sah,  he 
towered  ober  Estes  lak  er  lion  dat  bed  cum  home 
74 


from  Tennessee 

an'  foun'  er  cur  in  his  house.  An'  all  de  time 
his  eyes  shone  lak  lightnin'  an'  his  face  \vuz  sot 
lak  er  jedge's,  an'  his  voice  wuz  lak  er  god's  ! 
He  pulled  de  forged  letter  out  an'  ole  Marster 
read  it,  an'  Miss  Kitty  cum  to  an'  read  it,  an'  he 
tole  Miss  Kitty  how  he  writ  to  her  time  an'  ergin 
an'  at  las'  got  dis  letter.  An'  she  cried  lak  her  hart 
would  break,  an'  she  tole  how  she  bed  writ  to 
him  time  an'  ergin  befo'  she  heurd  he  wuz  dead, 
an'  nurver  got  no  letter,  an'  befo'  1  knowed  it  I 
jes'  hollered  out :  '  O,  hit  pays  to  be  postmaster, 
hit  do  !' 

"  An',  sab,  wbut  do  you  reckon  ole  Marster 
dun?  He  jes'  hugged  Marse  Henry  an'  wrung 
his  ban'  an'  call  'im  his  son,  an'  den  he  got  so 
mad  he  lost  his  ole  baid,  an'  cum  runnin'  out  in 
de  hall,  an'  sed  :  'Wash  !  Wash  !  Bring  me  my 
pistols,  Wash  !  The  forgin'  villain  to  dare  marry 
a  gemman's  darter  !' 

"  In  er  minnit  he  cum  runnin'  back  wid  er  pair 
ob  durrungers  in  his  ban's  an  ernudder  pair  in 
his  eyes,  an'  be  rushed  up  to  Marse  Henry  an' 
sed  :  '  Henry,  my  son,  you  shan't  kill  'im  !  Let 
yore  ole  uncle  bab  dat  pleasure.  The  forger  ! 
Why,  he  married  my  darter,  an'  1  thort  he  wuz  er 
gemman  !' 

"  But  Estes  wuz  gone,  gone  to  parts  unkown. 

An'  Miss  Kitty  wuz  laffin'  an'   cryin',   in   Marse 

Henry's  arms,  befo'  all  de  guests  an'  eb'rybody, 

an'  ole  Marster  stop  sorter  sho't-lak,  when  he  seed 

75 


Songs  and  Stories 

'er,  fur  he  wa' n't  prepared  fur  dat,  an 'Marse  Henry 
laffed  an'  pulled  out  ernudder  paper — er  little  slip 
ob  paper,  an'  den  he  sed  :  'In  de  sweetness  ob 
dis  hour  I  furgib  'im,  Unkle.  Besides,  he  ain't 
married  yore  darter.  Dis  little  instrument  am 
jes'  five  yeahs  de  oldes'.  I'm  sorry,  Unkle,'  he 
sed  wid  er  twinkle  in  he's  eyes  dat  belied 
his  appollergy,  '  but  I  married  Kitty  de  night 
befo'  I  lef  five  yeahs  ago.  Heah  is  de  li- 
cense an'  dis  am  Squire  Sanders'  signature — an' — 
why  hello,  Squire,  I'm  glad  to  see  you  ergin  !'  es 
Squire  Sanders  an'  all  de  folks  he  knowed  flocked 
erroun'  'im  to  shake  his  ban'. 

"Gawd,  sah,  dat  wuz  er  happy  night!  But 
nuffin'  wud  do  ole  Marster  but  dat  dey  mus'  be 
married  ober  ergin  by  de  Piskolopium  preacher, 
an'  in  gran'  style,  too. 

"  So  in  erbout  er  hour  Marse  Henry  cum  out, 
dressed  in  de  unerform  ob  er  majah  gineral,  an' 
dey  wuz  married  ergin— an  de  han'somes'  pair 
dat  eber  sed  yes  to  de  preacher.  An'  when  I 
went  up  to  shake  dey  ban's,  Marse  Henry  tell  me 
to  stan'  by  he's  side,  an'  den  he  pulliout  ernudder 
paper,  one  jes'  freshly  writ,  an'  he  read  it  to  all 
de  folks — thang  Gawd,  he  had  bought  me  frum 
ole  Marster  ! 

"  An'  den  he  turned  roun'  to  me,  nigger  dat 

I  wuz,  an'  he  sed  wid  er  tear  in  he's  manly  eye  : 

'Wash,  a  true  frien'  am  a  jewel  on  de  finger  ob 

life.     I  fout  too  hard  fur  de  freedom  ob  others  to 

76 


from  Tennessee 

see  my  bes'  frien'  a  slave.  I  have  bought  yo' 
frum  Unkle  Robert,  as  dis  bill  ob  sale  will  show. 
Take  it  ;  you  are  free  !' 

"  I  drapped  at  his  feet  an'  cried  an'  kissed  his 
han',  but  he  pulled  me  up,  an'  es  he  put  five  big 
gol'  pieces  in  my  han'  he  laffed  an'  sed  :  '  An' 
these  are  frum  my  wife,  for  valuabul  assistance 
rendered  at  her  fun'ral !' 

"  An'  es  I  kissed  her  sweet  han',  Gawd  bless 
her,  she  looked  up  at  Marse  Henry  laffin'  by  her 
side,  an'  de  smile  she  gib  him  wus  lak  de  break 
ob  day  in  Heaben  !" 


77 


Songs  and  Stories 


THE  WOLF  HUNT  ON  BIG  BIGBY. 

"  T  SEE  de  dudes  hev  got  up  er  new  sport  up  ter 
Yakee  Ian',"  said  old  Wash  the  other  day. 
"  Dey  calls  it  Golf  huntin'.  Hezitgot  ennything 
ter  do  wid  wolf  huntin'  ?"  he  asked.  "  Ef  it  hez, 
I  jes'  wanter  say  I'll  go  ter  New  Jarsey  ter  see  it 
ergin,"  said  the  old  man,  as  he  sat  down  on  the 
wood-pile  and  laughed  as  if  he  was  tickled  im- 
mensely. 

"Why,  no,  it  hasn't  anything  to  do  with  wolf 
hunting.  Why  do  you  ask  ?"  I  said. 

"Wai,  de  names  sounded  sorter  lak,  an'  de 
folks  dat  plays  it  am  de  same  sorter  fellers  dat 
cum  down  to  our  home  way  back  in  de  fall  ob  '35 
ter  hunt  wolves.  But  let  me  put  dis  ax  in  de 
kitchen  cellar  fus',"  he  said,  as  he  hobbled  across 
the  yard.  "I  nurver  could  tell  ennything  wid 
er  ax  or  er  hoe  starin'  me  in  de  face  an'  'mindin' 
me  dat  man  wuz  made  ter  saw  wood. 

"  Dis  country  ain't  whut  hit  useter   be  when 

Marse  Bill  Young  settled  down  on  Big  Bigby  way 

back  'bout  eighteen-twenty-fo'.    You  nurver  seen 

sech  Ian'  in  all  yore  life — de  grandes'  forests  dat 

78 


from  Tennessee 

eber  sot  on  de  face  of  de  yearth,  an'  de  cane  sc 
big  dat  you  bed  to  cut  roads  through  it  lak  it  wuz 
er  wilderness.  An'  de  newgroun'!  Wai,  sah, 
I  nurver  seed  sich  crops  sence  de  good  Lord  made 
me  !  Why  down  in  de  new  groun'  dat  we  cleaned 
up  we  didn't  hafter  plant  but  half  er  grain  er 
cohn — 

"Half  a  grain!     Why?" 

"Why,  good  gracious,  sah,  er  haf  er  grain 
made  er  stalk  twenty  foot  high  !  Whut  we 
wanter  plant  er  whole  grain  fer,  an'  haf  sich 
high  cohn  we  cudden't  pull  it  wid  wun  ob  dese 
yeah  fire  ladders  !  An'  punkins  !  Marse  Bill 
Young  tried  'em  wun  yeah  in  de  black  locus'  new 
groun',  an'  arter  dat  he  gin  strick  orders  fur  no- 
body ter  nurver  plant  er  punkin  seed  widin  ten 
miles  er  his  farm  ergin." 

"Why?"  I  asked.  The  old  man  scratched 
his  head  as  if  pondering  whether  to  give  his  rea- 
sons or  not. 

"  Bekose,"  he  said,  "  de  punkin  vines  tuck  de 
plantashun,  and  sum  ob  'em  run  fur  miles  up  in 
de  hills,  an'  de  naixt  spring  when  ole  Marster 
went  out  ter  survey  an'  preempt  mo'  Ian',  he 
cum  back  home  mad  es  de  debbil,  an'  sed  ebry 
mile  er  two  fur  ten  miles  eround,  sum  po'  white 
folks  frum  de  mountains  hedcum  out  in  de  spring 
ob  de  yeah,  an'  whar  eber  dey  foun'  er  punkin 
dey  hed  squatted  on  de  Ian',  scooped  out  de  pun- 
kin,  built  er  chimbly  in  wun  eend,  put  in  er  door 
79 


Songs  and  Stories 

an'  winders,  an'  wus  libbin  dar  mighty  cheerful 
lak  an'  contented  twell  dey  cud  build  'em  er  lit- 
tle bigger  home.  Ole  Marster'd  owned  haf  de 
county  ef  it  hadn't  been  fur  dat,  sho'!" 

"Wash,"  I  said,  looking  him  steadily  in  the 
eye,  "  you  have  gone  to  lying  in  your  old  age." 

"  Grate  Gord,"  he  said,  with  a  look  such  as 
Elijah  cast  on  the  prophets  of  Baal,  "thetenny 
wun  should  excuse  me  ob  dat  in  my  ole  aige  ! 
An'  me  tellin'  whut  1  seed  wid  my  own  eyes  an' 
heurd  ole  Marster  say,  too.  But  dat  ain't  heah 
nor  dar.  I'se  tellin'  you  'bout  de  wolf  hunt. 

"  Dar  wuz  er  ole  she  wolf  dat  libbed  down  in 
de  cane  dat  wuz  jes'  er  little  de  bes'  wolf  enny 
body  ebber  seed.  She  jes'  libbed  on  our  sheep 
an'  horgs,  an'  dar  want  no  dorg  cud  bes'  her. 
Ole  Marster  tried  he's  pack  er  houn's  on  'er  an' 
she  cleaned  'em  up  in  ten  minits.  Den  Cap'n 
Jim  Estes  tried  he's  pack  on  'er,  and  dey  all  cum 
home  lookin'  lak  rigimint  flags  arter  de  battle  ob 
Waterloo.  Den  dey  raised  er  crowd  ob  de  boss 
fightin'  dorgs  ob  de  settlement — de  brindled  kind 
an  de  b'ar-fightin'  kind — an'  dey  all  hem  de  ole 
wolf  up  in  de  cane  an'  rush  in  ter  de  tune  ob  '  Hail, 
de  Conk'rin'  Hero  Cum,'  but,  bless  yore  soul,  sah, 
in  erbout  five  minits  dey  all  cum  out  howlin'  '  De 
Gal  I  Lef  Benin'  Me  !' 

"  Den  de  whole  settlement  riz  up  in  arms. 
Dar  wa'n't  er  man  dar  dat  dat  ole  wolf  hadn't 
wusted  he's  dorg,  an'  I've  allers  noticed  dat 
So 


from  Tennessee 

when  you  hurt  er  man's  dorg  you  jes'  es  well 
hit  hees  chilluns.  Hit  makes  'im  er  heap  mad- 
der. We'd  er  whipped  de  British  long  'fo'  we 
did  ef  dey  hed  cum  ober  heah  an'  'stead  ob  taxin' 
us  widout  misrepresentashun  dey'd  cuffed  sum  ob 
our  no  'count  dorgs  erround.  Dis  whole  country 
woulder  riz  an'  whipped  'em  out  in  three  days. 
Ole  Patrick  Henry  and  Boston  Massacre  wooden 
er  bin  in  it. 

'•'  But  ole  Marster  wuz  a  jus'  man,  an'  he  sed 
dat  wolf  wuz  er  free-born  'A\erican  wolf,  an'  no 
man  should  ambush  her  an'  kill  'er  wid  er  rifle. 
She  shud  have  er  fair  chance  an'  er  fair  fight  ef 
she  et  ebry  pig  on  hees  place.  Ef  dey  had  dorgs 
good  enough  to  kill  'er,  all  right;  ef  dey  didn't, 
she  mout  jes'  lib  on.  O,  ole  Marster  wuz  er  white 
man,  I  tells  you  ;  an'  hees  wurd  went  in  dat  set- 
tlement. So  dey  jes'  gib  up  an'  let  de  ole  wolf 
have  it  her  way. 

"Not  long  arter  dat  ole  Marster  went  to  New 
York  on  bizness,  an'  ter  hev  er  good  time  at  de 
theaters  an'  sich.  Ole  Marster  wuz  er  swell 
when  de  'cashyun  riz — but  he  didn't  let  it  rise  too 
often.  When  he  come  back  he  sorter  laugh  an' 
say  : 

"  Washington,  I've  invited  de  New  Jarsey 
huntin'  club  down  to  do  up  de  ole  wolf  in  de  Big 
Bigby  cane  brake.  Dey'll  bring  er  dozen  im- 
ported Roosh'n  wolf  houn's  dat  dey  say  am  prize 
fighters,  an'  will  rid  us  ob  de  ole  witch.' 
6  81 


Songs  and  Stories 

"'All  right,'  sez  I.  '  Marster,  I'll  sho'  see 
dat  dey  finds  de  enemy.' 

"  Wai,  sah,  in  erbout  two  weeks  er  mo'  heah 
dey  all  cum,  an'  bless  yore  life,  honey,  you 
nurver  did  see  sich  swells  as  dey  wuz.  Dey  hed 
on  high  silk  hats,  an'  grate  white  collars,  an' 
biled  shuts  and  speckled  cravats,  an'  satin  vests, 
an'  corduroy  pants  and  pump-soled  boots.  An' 
you  b'leeve  whut  I  say  ?  Sho'  'nuff  !  Wai,  sah, 
I'll  swear  dey  hed  sho'  'nuff  white  folks  ter  wait 
on  'em  !  'Fo'  Gord  hit's  er  fac'  !  Huh  !  Bless 
yore  soul,  we  niggers  didn't  'sociate  wid  dem, 
dough.  Dey  ain't  no  'ristocratic  nigger  gwine 
'sociate  wid  secon' -class  white  folks.  An'  de 
dorgs  !  Now  you  heurd  my  horn  !  Dey  fotch  er 
dozen  ob  de  slickes'-lookin',  big-haided,  flap- 
yeared,  wus-lookin'  houn'  dorgs  you  eber  seed, 
chained  two  an'  two,  an'  er  man  jes'  ter  take 
keer  ob  'em.  But  I  'spected  sumpin  wuz  wrong 
soon  es  I  seed  'em,  an'  dat  night  when  Marster 
set  out  a  decanter  ob  fus-class  mountin'  whisky 
wid  lump-sugar  an'  mint,  an'  ax  'em  ter  take  er 
drink,  an'  dey  all  'fuse  kase  dey  say  dar  '  stum- 
micks  cudn'  stan'  sich  crude  licker,'  an'  dey 
would  jes'  take  er  little  claret  wine  dey  hed  in 
dere  trunks,  den  1  knowed  de  whole  layout  cudn't 
bag  er  kildee.  Wai,  sah,  dey  didn't  do  nuflin' 
but  talk  erbout  de  pedergree  ob  dem  houns  an' 
whut  hit  cost  ter  git  'em  heah,  an'  how  menny 
wolves  dey  kill  in  Roosher  in  wun  day,  an'  how 
82 


from  Tennessee 

sabage  dey  wuz,  and  sum  ob  de  niggers  vvuz 
list'nin'  at  de  winders  an'  didn't  hab  no  mo'  sense 
den  to  b'leeve  it,  an'  hit  spread  all  ober  de 
plantashun  an'  skeered  de  pickerninies  so  dey 
all  sleep  wid  dey  haids  under  de  kiver  dat 
night. 

"Wai,  de  naixt  day  ole  Marster  mounted  'em 
an'  dey  blowed  dey  horns  an'  got  de  houns  an' 
de  keeper  an'  went  off  in  gran'  style.  I  rid  er 
gray  mule  and  went  erlong  ter  show  'em  de 
game.  Wai,  we  wa'nt  no  time  gettin'  dar,  fur 
de  ole  wolf  hed  er  cane  swamp  whar  she  libbed 
and  wuz  boss  in,  an'  ebrybody  knowed  it. 

"  Hit  muster  bin  de  wrong  time  ob  de  moon 
fur  de  dorgs  er  de  right  time  ob  de  moon  fur  de 
wolf — ennyway  we  struck  her  in  wun  ob  her 
wo'st  moods.  Hit  'peered  ter  me  she'd  been 
pinin'  all  her  life  fur  er  pack  ob  Roosh'n  wolf 
houn's  an'  dude  hunters,  an'  I  hev  no  doubt  ef 
she'd  been  axed  into  Delmonicky's  ter  name  her 
bill  ob  fare  she'd  er  named  er  dozen  Roosh'n 
wolf  houn's  on  de  half  shell— dem  dat's  got  con- 
fidence in  deysels  an'  am  fat  an'  sassy.  I  can't 
'spress  ter  you  how  happy  an'  delighted  an'  highly 
complimented  she  wuz  when  she  seed  hunters 
hed  imported  'em  fo'  thousand  miles  jes'  fer  her 
special  benefit.  Fur  fear  dey  might  think  she 
wuz  lackin'  in  perfessional  kurtesy  she  cum  out 
ob  her  lair,  in  er  nice  cleared  place,  an'  met  de 
furriners  wid  de  blandes'  smile.  Den  she  back 
83 


Songs  and  Stories 

hersef  ergin  er  clay  root  ter  protec'  her  r'ar  an' 
got  down  ter  bizness. 

"  Boss,  dat  fight  wuz  soon  oher.  De  fus'  fool 
houn'  dat  went  in  she  broke  hees  back  wid  \vun 
snap  ob  her  steel-trap  jaws — de  naixt  \vun  got 
hees  throat  cut  lak  er  razor.  Dem  furrin  dorgs 
lied  er  furrin  language,  an'  de  dyin'  yelp  ob  de 
fus'  was  er  heabenly  translashun  fur  de  yuthers, 
an'  dey  lit  out.  Dey  all  went  back  ter  Roosher 
by  way  ob  de  Norf  Pole  an'  de  ismus  of  Cant- 
Ketchem — an'  dey  went  in  er  hurry.  De  dudes 
got  mad  an'  called  an'  hollered,  but  dey  wa'nt  er 
furrin  houn'  in  de  county  in  two  hours. 

"  But  de  fun  lied  jes'  begun.  De  ole  lady  bein' 
diserp'inted,  got  b'ilin'  mad.  She  kerned  de  wa' 
inter  ducledom.  She  run  de  keeper  up  er  black- 
gum  tree  and  den  lit  into  de  hunters — an'  you 
orter  seed  'em  cum  outer  dat  swamp.  Some  ob 
'em  didn't  stop  runnin'  fer  ten  miles  !  De  ole 
lady  fit  lak  she  'membered  'bout  sucklin'  two 
genuine  white  men  onc't,  way  back  in  de  days 
ob  Unkle  Rum'lus  an'  Unkle  Remus,  an'  she 
know'd  whut  de  right  kind  ob  article  wuz,  an' 
now  in  her  old  aige  ter  be  played  off  on  by  er  lot 
ob  counterfeits  on  humanity  an'  imported  dorgs 
wuz  too  much.  De  darkies  on  de  place  say  dey 
heurd  de  keeper  up  in  de  tree  prayin'  in  French 
all  night. 

"  De  naix't  day  arter  we  got  'em  off  by  de 
fus'  stage,  ole  Marster  lacter  laf  hesef  ter  death, 


from  Tennessee 

an'  he  say  he  gwineter  petishun  congress  ter  put 
de  ole  wolf  on  de  flag  by  de  side  ob  de  'Merican 
eagle. 

"  But  how  you  reckin  we  got  dat  ole  wolf  atlas'? 
Why,  mean'  er  nur'r  nigger  went  possum  huntin' 
wun  night  wid  three  good  dorgs,  an'  we  got  her 
up  thinkin'  we  bed  de  bes'  coon  in  de  swamp. 
You  know  er  nigger'll  fight  all  night  wid  de  debbil 
ef  bethink  it's  er  coon  er  'possum,  an'  twixt  us 
all  we  manage  ter  beat  de  ole  lady  ter  death. 
When  we  kilt  her  an'  struck  er  light  an'  seed 
whut  we  bed,  we  drapped  her  an'  got  outer  dar 
faster'n  we  went  in.  Hit  skeers  meter  think  uv 
it  now  !  What  big  things  sum  folks  do  widout 
intendin'  it !" 


Songs  and  Stories 


GRAY  GAMMA. 

"  T  AIN'Tnurver  tole  you  'bout  dat  boss  race  down 
1  to  Ashwood,  when  Marse  Bill  Young  bet  me 
ergin  two  thousan'  dollars  ob  er  Missippy  gem- 
man's  money,  has  I  ?"  asked  old  Wash  the  other 
night,  after  he  had  come  in  to  tell  me  the  young 
Jersey  heifer  had  found  a  calf  in  the  meadow  lot 
that  day.  "Wai,  sah,  I've  seed  many  er  race, 
but  dat  wuz  de  mos'  interestines'  one,  frum  my 
p'int  ob  view,  dat  I  ebber  seed,  'kase  I  wuz  de 
principalist  stakes,  an'  dey  stood  me  on  er  stump, 
an'  nuthin'  but  dat  filly's  grit  saved  me  frum 
bein'  a  dead  nigger  in  Missippy  terday,  'stead  ob 
a  eminently  'spectable  cullered  gemman  frum  de 
race-boss  state  ob  Tennessee. 

"I  had  er  mighty  good  marster—wus  Marse 
Bill  Young — an'  he  wuz  de  fust  man  ter  bring 
thurrerbreds  to  de  country.  Ain't  I  neber  tole 
you  'bout  dat  bay  colt  Firefly,  by  Dan  Rice,  out 
ob  Margerite,  by  'Merican  'Clipse  ?  Heish  !  Long 
es  1  bin  wid  you,  1  ain't  neber  tole  you  'bout  dat 
colt  ?  For  de  Lawd's  sake  ! 

"  Wai,  sah,  he  wuz  de  bes'  t'ree-year-ole  I 
36 


from  Tennessee 

eber   put   er   shoe   on.      Fus'  dam  by  'Merican 
'Clipse  ;  second  dam  by  Timoleon  ;  third  dam 

by-" 

"  Never  mind  about  his  dams,"  I  remarked,  as 
I  gave  the  old  man  a  cut  of  "  Williamson  County 
Twist,"  which  I  always  kept  in  the  drawer  for 
him  ;  "just  go  on  with  the  race." 

"Wai,  sah,  I  had  er  mighty  good  marster — 
wuz  Marse  Bill  Young — an'  he  wuz  de  fust 
man  to  bring  thurrerbreds  to  de  country,  es  I 
wuz  sayin'.  He  didn't  hab  but  one  fault,  an' 
dat  wuz  he'd  bet  ennything  in  de  wurl'  he 
had,  'cept  his  wife  an'  chilluns,  on  his  own 
bosses.  He  neber  did  think  enny  ob  his  own 
bosses  could  be  beat,  but  he  cum  mighty  nigh 
changin'  his  'pinion  'bout  dat  thing  onc't,  an' 
losin'  erbout  de  valu'blest  nigger  in  Murry 
county  to  boot.  Dat  nigger  wuz  me.  Mind  you, 
I  ain't  blowin'  my  own  horn — nobody  eber  heurd 
me  doin  dat — but  I'm  jes'  tellin'  you  what  Marse 
Bill  Young  said  hissef. 

"I  was  de  blacksmith  fur  de  plantashun,  an' 
shod  all  de  thurrerbreds.  An'  right  now  I  can 
gib  any  ob  dese  here  new-fangled  hoss-shoers  er 
lesson  er  two,  kase  we  knowed  how  ter  shoe 
bosses  in  dem  days  ;  ef  I  hadn't  I  wouldn't  er 
bin  in  dis  state  terday. 

"Wai,  sah,  'bout  long  in  Febrery — 'way  back 
in  de  forties — dar  cum  er  gemman  frum  Missippy 
wid  er  string  er  thurrerbreds  gwine  to  Nashville 
87 


Songs  and  Stories 

fur  de  spring  races.  De  Lawd  sake  !  Dey  used 
ter  hang  up  purses  in  dem  days  !  Why,  dis  same 
mair,  Gray  Gamma,  dat  I'm  tellin'  you  'bout, 
won  forty  thousan'  dollars  fur  ole  Marster  in 
one  purse — won  it  in  er  walk — but,  bless  yer 
soul — ole  Marster  spent  it  in  er  fly  !  He  wuz  er 
white  gemman  !  Munny  wa'  nt  what  he  wuz  livin' 
fur.  He  wuz  livin'  ter  race  hosses, 

"  Wai,  sah,  ez  I  wuz  sayin',  all  de  gemmen  dat 
passed  thru  de  country  in  dem  days,  befo'  de  rail- 
roads, jes'  went  out  and  stopped  at  ole  Marster's 
— de  common  folks  put  up  at  de  hotel — an'  so,  ez 
I  wus  sayin',  de  Missippy  man  he  put  up  at  ole 
Marster's  too,  wid  all  his  hosses  an'  niggers  an' 
teams  an'  borrows  fur  to  borrow  de  track  wid, 
when  dey  get  to  Nashville. 

"  Wai,  sah,  dey  had  a  mair  in  dat  string  frum 
Missippy  dat  dey  laid  great  stress  on.  De  Mis- 
sippy nigger  tole  me  in  conferdence  she  could  out- 
run her  shadder  wid  one  leg  tied  up — an'  she 
cud  !  How  did  I  know  ?  Wai,  de  truf  is,  me  an' 
de  Missippy  nigger  gib  her  an'  Firefly  er  midnight 
trial  one  moonlight  night  fur  er  poun'  er  Tennes- 
see terbacco,  while  ole  Marster  an'  de  owner 
wuz  playin'  poker  fer  keeps  in  de  billiard  room. 
Dey  called  de  mare  Mary  Lef,  an'  all  I  know  is 
she  lef  me  an'  Firefly  dat  night  jes'  lak  we  wuz 
er  pair  er  mud  muels  stuck  in  er  clay  bank. 
Jimminy  !  how  she  could  run  ! 

"  De  nex'  day  ole  Marster  cum  ter  me  lookin' 
88 


from  Tennessee 

sorter  worried — fur  he  thout  er  heap  er  me — an' 
he  said  : 

'"Wash,  I'm  feared  I  played  de  mischief  las' 
night,'  sez  he. 

"  '  How  so,  Marster  ?'  says  I. 

"'Well,  Wash,  you  know  dey  can't  nobody 
bluff  me  when  it  comes  to  my  bosses.  Dey  am 
as  good  as  dey  make  'em.  An'  all  I've  got  ter 
say  ter  you  is  dat  I  called  de  Majah's  bluff  las' 
night  when  he  talked  erbout  Mary  Lef'  beatin' 
Firefly.  I  bet  him  you  an'  Firefly  ergin  two 
thousan'  dollars  an'  Mary  Lef  dat  he  couldn't 
do  it — dat's  all — an'  ef  Firefly  can't  win,  you  jes' 
es  well  make  up  your  mind  to  tell  us  all  good-bye. 
De  race  comes  off  day  after  termorrer,  an'  er 
gem'man  don't  gib  his  word  butonc't.  You  may 
shoe  de  colt  termorrer  ebenin','  an'  he  walk  off 
es  onconcerned  ez  ef  he  wuz  tellin'  me  ter  go  an' 
kill  hogs. 

"  But  great  sakes  !  Whut  er  knot  riz  in  my 
throat !  I  didn't  mind  it  ef  I'd  only  had  er  dog's 
chance — but  I  done  seed  what  de  mair  could  do — • 
an'  I  knowed  cley  wuz  playin'  er  game  on  Marster, 
an'  dey  knowed  it,  too.  An'  me  ter  leave  Dinah 
an'  de  babies  an'  ole  Tennessee  an'  all  I  had  on 
sech  a  chance  es  dat  ?  Wai,  sah,  I  jes'  went  off 
an'  cried.  I  knowed  it  wa'nt  no  use  ter  go  an'  tell 
Marster  all  'bout  what  me  an'de  Missippy  nigger 
done,  'kase  de  debbil  hissef  couldn't  make  him 
break  his  wurd — an'  I'd  er  got  er  cowhidin'  ter 


Songs  and  Stories 

boot.     I  jes'  made  up  my  mind  dat  all  dey  wuz 
in  life  wuz  ober  fer  Wash. 

"Wai,  sah,  when  de  news  spread,  an'  Dinah 
heurd  it,  darwas  er  scene.  She  'lowed  she'd  go 
an'  beg  Marster  ter  let  her  an'  de  babies  go  too, 
an'  I  nurver  will  fergit  de  night  we  went  up  to  de 
big  house — me  an'  Dinah — to  beg  Marster  not  ter 
sep'rate  us.  Wai,  sah,  he  cum  out  on  de  po'ch 
es  tall  an'  dignified  es  ef  he  owned  de  yearth — 
but  I  knowed  he  had  a  warm  heart  fur  all  dat — 
an'  Dinah  wuz  cryin'  an'  I  was  mighty  silent, 
an'  Dinah  said  : 

"'Marster,  please  don't  sep'rate  us,  but  jes' 
put  me  an'  de  babies  up,  too,'  an'  she  could  say 
no  more. 

"  Marster  looked  sorter  troubled,  lak  he  hadn't 
thouterbout  de  thing  befo',  an'  he  walked  ter  de 
drawin'  room  an'  said  quietly  lak  : 

"  '  Majah  Fellows,  will  you  step  heah  er  mo- 
ment?' 

"An'  de  Missippy  gem'man  step'  out  on  de 
po'ch  an'  we  step  back  in  de  shadder,  an'  ole 
Marster  sez,  sez  he  : 

"  '  Majah,  I  wuz  a  little  hasty  in  my  bet  the  other 
night.  I  had  fergot  dis  boy  had  er  young  wife 
an'  two  chilluns.  I  have  neber  sep'rated  a  man 
an'  his  wife — in  fact,  sah,  neber  sold  one  ob  my 
niggers — an'  fur  de  sake  ob  common  humanity  I 
would  like  to  amend  my  bet,  if  ergreeable  ter 
you.' 

90 


from  Tennessee 

"'State  your  amendment,  sah,'  said  de  Mis- 
sippy  man,  coldly. 

"'The  condition  of  our  match,  sah,'  said  ole 
Marster,  quietly,  '  wuz  four-mile  heats,  an'  two 
thousan'  against  my  nigger.  I  kno'  yer  mair  is 
de  fastest,  but  I  believe  Firefly  can  outlast  her. 
He  is  bred  to  stay,  an'  de  only  chance  I  have  to 
win  is  to  comply  with  the  four-mile  condition. 
But,  in  order  not  to  sep'rate  this  boy  an'  his  wife, 
I  will  make  the  distance  only  a  mile  an'  a  half, 
an'  in  case  you  win  I'll  put  up  the  woman  an' 
her  two  children  an'  er  thousan'  dollars  in  gold 
ergin  the  boy  alone,  that  my  three-year-old  filly, 
Gray  Gamma,  will  beat  your  mair,  Mary  Lef,  at 
the  same  distance.' 

"  '  Sence  you  wish  it,  sah,  so  be  it,'  said  de 
Majah,  '  but ' — an'  hit  made  my  blood  bile  when  I 
heurd  him  add — '  it  must  also  be  added  that  the 
winner  of  the  last  race  gets  both  horses  con- 
testinV 

"  Ole  Marster  flushed,  'kase  it  looked  lak  de 
Missippy  man  wanted  de  yearth.  It  wa'nt  so 
bad  to  lose  me  an'  Dinah,  but  I  knowed  ole 
Marster  didn't  wanter  run  no  risk  'bout  losin' 
de  filly,  an'  when  he  said  '  all  right,  sah,'  1  knowed 
he  done  it  jes'  fur  our  sake.  But  when  he  men- 
tioned Gray  Gamma  my  heart  give  er  leap,  fur 
I  knowed  her  blood  wuz  es  pyore  es  de  icicle  dat 
hangs  on  Dinah's  temple,  an'  es  hot  es  de  hart- 
draps  dat  flows  thru'  Juno's  veins — fur  I  heurd 
91 


Songs  and  Stories 

ole  Marster  say  it  menny  er  time.  She  had  de 
meanes'  temper  in  creashun,  an'  would  hab  her 
way  er  die.  She  wuz  mighty  nigh  sp'iled  in  er 
two-year-old  form  an'  hadn't  been  raced  sence  ; 
but  she  'peered  to  hab  got  ober  it,  an'  I  heurd  de 
trainer  tell  ole  Marster  de  Lawd  only  knowed 
how  fas'  she  could  run.  Arter  we  went  home 
I  tole  Dinah  all  erbout  de  filly,  an'  dat  night 
werastledwid  de  angel  in  pra'ar — we  prayed  dat 
de  angel  might  take  de  crotchets  outen  de  filly's 
head — we  knowed  she'd  do  de  rest. 

"  Wai,  sah,  when  de  day  cum,  de  whole  neigh- 
borhood turned  out.  Ole  Marster  put  me  on  er 
stump  an'  de  Missippy  gem'man  put  er  bag  ob 
gold  beside  me,  an'  Firefly  an'  Mary  Lef  come 
up  an'  wuz  soon  erway.  Spite  ob  de  fac'  dat  I 
knowed  we  had  no  chance,  my  heart  jes'  lak  ter 
break  out  er  my  buzzum.  I  saw  Dinah  cryin' 
in  de  wagon  whar  she  an'  de  babies  wuz,  an' 
den  I  looked  at  ole  Marster — he  wuz  jes'  smokin' 
er  seegar  lak  he  wuz  lookin'  at  er  heat  ergin 
time,  an'  sez  I,  '  sho'ly  he  ain't  got  no  heart,'  but 
I  knowed  better  befo'  de  race  wuz  ober.  Firefly 
wuz  game  an'  staid  wid  de  mair — I  cu'd  see  he 
wuz  better  at  de  mile  dan  he  wuz  at  de  half,  an' 
better  a  quarter  furder  on  dan  he  wuz  at  de  mile, 
an'  I  seed  what  er  fool  I  wuz  not  ter  let  ole  Marster 
make  it  fo'  miles  ;  an'  jes'  es  1  begin  ter  think  an' 
hope  dat  Firefly  would  beat  her  ennyway,  Mary 
Lef  s  rider  went  to  de  whip,  de  mair  made  er 
92 


from  Tennessee 

spurt  an'  pushed  her  nose  erhead,  I  heurd  er 
shout,  an'  I  b'longed  to  de  Missippy  man  ! 

"I  got  offen  de  stump.  I  cudn't  see  which 
way  ter  go,  I  wuz  cryin'  so.  Ole  Tennessee 
neber  looked  so  sweet  ter  me  befo'.  De  wheat 
fiel's  looked  greener  an'  de  cabins  whiter  an'  de 
hills  had  a  charm  I  neber  had  know'd  befo'.  I 
cudn't  hardly  walk  twell  I  heurd  ole  Marster  say  : 
'  Wash,  you  am  de  property  ob  Majah  Fellows,' 
jes'  lak  he  wuz  er  gibin'  erway  er  dog,  an'  sez  I 
to  myself,  '  sho'ly  ole  Marster  is  crazy — he  ain't 
got  no  soul.'  An'  I  leaned  ergin  de  stump.  Den 
I  heurd  him  say  : 

"  'Majah,  while  yore  mair  is  coolin'  out  I'll  ask 
yore  permission  to  let  this  boy  change  my  filly's 
shoes — he  has  bin  my  blacksmith,  you  kno'.' 

'"Sartenly,  sah,'  said  de  Majah. 

"  An'  right  dar  is  whar  Marster  had  sense  an' 
I  didn't.  It  wuz  a  cold  day  an'  de  groun'  wuz 
nearly  frozen,  an'  de  track  wuz  slick.  An' 
Marster  said  to  me  at  de  shed  :  '  Select  er  very 
light  but  rough  set  ob  shoes,  cork  'em  lightly  all 
errouncl — I'm  surprised  Mary  Lef's  owner  can't 
see  dat  her  plates  are  too  slick  fur  ice.'  An'  den 
he  said,  sorter  smilin' :  'You  needn't  look  so 
solemn,  you'll  be  berried  on  dat  hill  yit.'  Wai, 
I  dun  lak  he  said,  and  dat  wus  one  time  I  sho' 
did  my  bes'  at  shoein' — an'  all  de  time  I  wuz 
prayin'  fur  Gray  Gamma  ter  go  off  right.  When 
1  wuz  through,  Marster  look  her  ober  an'  gib  her 
93 


Songs  and  Stories 

an  apple  an'  patted  her  neck  an'  he  buckled  de 
girth  hissef. 

"When  de  filly  cum  out  an'  de  race  wuz  called 
I  noticed  Marster  wuz  a  changed  man — he  wuz 
no  longer  careless  lookin' — he  throw  erway  his 
seegar — he  see  ebrything  ;  yet  he  laugh  an'  joke. 
I  follered  his  tall  form  es  he  went  up  de  stretch 
to  gib  de  jockey  orders,  an'  es  he  passed  de  wagin 
whar  Dinah  wuz  cryin',  sez  he  :  '  Come,  girl, 
don't  be  cryin'  dar ;  hit's  prayin'you  need — pra'- 
ars  dat  de  filly  gits  off  right.  Ef  she  do  you  needn't 
stay  twell  de  race  is  ober — jes'  take  de  chillun 
an'  go  on  back  to  de  cabin,'  an'  he  stalked  on 
an'  me  er  follerin'  him  so  dazed  I  cudn't  hardly 
walk. 

"To  my  dyin'  day  I'll  neber  furgit  de  look  dat 
wuz  in  ole  Marster's  eye  when  he  went  up  to  de 
boy  dat  wuz  on  Gray  Gamma. 

"'Jim,'  sez  he,  'gimme  dat  whip,'  an' he 
throwed  de  rawhide  ober  de  fence.  '  Dis  mair 
needs  pettin'  in  dis  race — not  whippin'.  Now 
look  at  me,'  an'  his  steel-blue  eyes  looked  lak  ole 
Marster  cud  look  at  times  ;•  '  dis  race  is  mine  ef 
you  let  dis  filly  get  off  at  fust.  Don't  cross  her ; 
don't  stop  her;  don't  draw  yer  rein.  She'll  set 
de  pace — jes'  you  set  still  an'  guide  her.  Do 
you  heah  ?' 

"  '  Yes,  Marster,'  an'  de  starter  called  'em  to  de 
scratch. 

"  My  heart  beat  lak  a  drum.  I  cudn't  hardly 
94 


from  Tennessee 

breathe  ;  I  cudn't  stan',  an'  I  sot  down  on  de 
groun'.  I  knowed  ebrything  depended  on  de 
start,  dat  de  filly  vvuz  lak  er  spoilt  gal,  an'  ef 
erlowed  her  own  way  she'd  go  wid  de  joy  an'  de 
bound  of  er  angel,  but  ef  checked  she  mout  sulk 
all  through  de  race.  I  neber  took  my  eyes  offen 
her,  an'  when  dey  said  '  Go  !'  at  de  fust  trial,  I 
seed  her  wheel  an'  shoot  erway  lak  er  beam  ob 
sunlight,  an'  all  at  onc't  my  strength  come  back 
an'  I  jumped  up  an'  sez  I  :  'Thank  God  !  I'll 
die  in  ole  Tennessee  yit  !' 

"But  de  yudder  mair  wuz  fas',  an'  when  de  rider 
seed  Gray  Gamma's  tactics  he  jes'  turned  her 
loose — an'  she  dun  jes'  lak  she  dun  to  de  colt — 
crep'  up  ter  de  filly's  flank,  up  ter  her  saddle,  up 
ter  lier  haid,  an'  sez  I,  '  Is  she  gwinter  beat  er 
ennyhow  ?' 

"  Hit's  been  fifty-odd  year,"  said  the  old  man, 
as  he  looked  away  off  in  meditation,  "but  dat 
picture  is  branded  in  my  mind  es  plain  terday  es 
ef  1  seed  it  now.  I  ken  see  eben  how  de  sky  an' 
de  clouds  looked,  an'  de  outline  ob  dem  two 
hosses  es  dey  went  nose  an'  nose  eround  dat  track. 
Hit  'peered  lak  er  hour  befo'  dey  went  de  mile, 
an'  I  dreaded  de  time  I  knowed  wuz  comin' 
when  de  rider  ob  de  Missippy  mair  wud  go  to  his 
whip.  He  dun  it  at  de  quarter  pos',  an'  thinks  I, 
'  now  I'm  gone  !  Missippy  will  come  wid  er  bolt  !' 
But  Gord  bless  yore  soul,  honey,  Gray  Gamma 
hed  er  bolt,  too,  an'  when  de  mair  tried  ter  go  by 
95 


Songs  and  Stories 

her  de  boy  on  Gray  Gamma  jes'  leaned  ober 
an'  touch  her  gently  lak  wid  de  spur  in  de  flank 
an'  she  jes'  grappled  de  frozen  groun'  \vid  dem 
corks,  an'  shot  her  naik  ahead,  an'  I  jumped  up 
an'  down,  an'  hollered  Halleluyer  !  Halleluyer  ! 
I'll  lib  an'  die  in  ole  Tennessee  !'  An'  Gray 
Gamma  ? — she  seemed  ter  git  better.  She  seemed 
ter  fly  !  It  look  ter  me  lak  she  neber  touched 
de  yearth  fer  er  quarter  ob  er  mile  !  I  run  to 
de  wire  at  de  stump,  de  same  stump  I  cried  on 
befo',  an'  I  jumped  on  it  lak  er  game  rooster  on 
er  barn  fence,  an'  I  hollered  till  dey  heurd  me  at 
de  quarters,  two  miles  erway:  'Glory  halle- 
luyer  ! — Come  home,  Gray  Gamma  !' 

"  An'  she  cum — de  sweetest  sight  dis  nigger 
eber  seed.  She  cum  lak  er  bloomin'  skule  gal 
playin'  '  Puss  in  de  corner '  in  low  neck  an'  short 
sleeves,  wid  roses  on  her  breast,  mornin'  on  her 
cheeks  an'  stars  in  her  eyes,  an'  makin'  er  run 
fur  de  home  base  !  She  cum  lak  ten  camp 
meetin's  in  full  blast — an'  me  jes'  got  religun  ! 
She  cum  lak  whole  regimen's  marchin'  ober  kittle 
drums — an'  me  de  drum-majah  !  She  cum  lak 
de  charriut  ob  de  Lawd  in  de  pillar  ob  fiah — glory 
halleluyer  ! 

"Wai,  sah,  all  I  rickerlec'  is  dat  I  had  her 
'roun'  de  neck  an'  wuz  kissin'  de  star  in  her 
furred,  an'  1  look  an'  dair  stood  ole  Marster,  sorter 
smilin',  wid  his  eyes  sorter  moist,  an'  Dinah 
tryin'  ter  kiss  his  ban's,  an'  he  cum  an'  put 
96 


from  Tennessee 

five  twenty-dollar  gold  pieces  in  my  ban',  an' 
sez  he  :  'Stop  yer  blubberin',  yer  idjut,  an'  go 
ter  yer  cabin  ;  yer  don't  know  er  race  boss  ef 
you'd  meet  Mm  in  de  road,  an'  de  naixt  time  you 
hab  a  moonlight  race  wid  my  bosses  pick  out  one 
dat  will  teach  folks  how  ter  race  ergin  ole  Tennes- 
see !" 


97 


Songs  and  Stories 


THE  MULE  RACE  AT  ASHWOOD. 

(The  old  fairs  in  Maury  county  sometimes  ended 
in  a  mule  race,  in  which  every  effort  was  made 
by  the  spectators  to  retard  the  progress  of  the 
steeds  and  make  them  fly  the  track.  Old  Wash's 
account  below  is  not  exaggerated.) 

"  r~pALK  erbout  trotters  an'  pacers  bein'  cheap," 
1  said  old  Wash  the  other  night,  after  am- 
bling in  to  know  if  it  was  true  that  Coxey's  army 
was  only  a  scheme  to  put  the  colored  man  back 
into  slavery,  "  but  you  orter  seed  how  cheap 
thurrerbreds  got  in  Murry  county  way  back  in 
'35.  We  used  'em  es  dams  fur  Tennessee  mules, 
an'  dey  made  de  bes'  mule  in  de  wurl.  A  Ten- 
nessee mule  bred  dat  away  am  a  leetle  de  bes' 
pullin'  thing  dat  eber  was  hitched  to  de  yudder 
end  ob  a  trace  chain.  Pull?  Why,  I've  seed  'em 
die  in  de  traces,  tryin'  ter  pull  er  waggin  outen 
de  mud.  I  hup  I  may  die  ef  I  ain't  seed  one  pull 
her  fore  shoulders  down  ter  er  foot  ob  her  hips. 
I  disremember  dat  mule  conspicuously,  'kase  we 
cut  part  ob  her  tail  off  arter  dat  an'  sold  her  ter 
er  circus  fur  er  geeraffe. 

"  An'  run  !    Wai,  sah,  you  orter  seed  dat  race 
9S 


from  Tennessee 

at  de  ole  Ashland  track  one  fall  !  Dey  got  up  er 
mule  race,  an'  ole  Marster  tole  me  ef  I'd  ride  his 
gray  mule  an'  win  he'd  let  me  marry  er  gal  dat 
belonged  on  ernudder  plantashun,  an'  one  dat  I'd 
bin  pinin'  fur  fur  er  long  time,  an'  ole  Marster 
didn't  want  me  ter  marry  her  'kase  she  wasn't 
in  de  fam'bly.  In  dem  days,  sah,  we  folks  ob  de 
fust  qualerty  hed  ter  be  mighty  'tickler  how  we 
marri'd  outen  de  fambly.  I  might  es  well  add, 
right  heah,"  said  the  old  man,  "that  arter  I  got 
'er  I  quit  pinin'  fur  'er.  I've  noticed  it's  ginerally 
dat  way.  But  you  wanter  know  how  dat  mule 
wuz  bred  ?  Fust  dam  by  Bosting,  secon'  dam 
by  'Clipse,  third  dam  by  Diomeed,  fourth  dam 
by  Flyin'  Children,  fifth  dam  by  Darley's  Ara- 
bian, an'  fur  twenty  more  dat  mule  went  on. 
On  her  sire's  side  she  traced  all  over  Spain 
an'  Portugal,  Egypt  an'  de  Holy  Lan',  an' 
clar  up  ter  de  Prince  ob  Wale  hissef.  Talk 
erbout  er  mule  not  bein'  bred  right !  Oh,  we  had 
'em  in  dem  days.  Thurrerbreds  was  sho'  cheap. 
"When  de  race  cum  off,  I  made  dat  mule  run 
lak  I  'spected  to  find  de  gal  hung  up  at  de  wire. 
De  yudder  mule  wuz  bred  spang  up,  too,  an'  we 
wuz  sailin'  erlong  pritty  briefly — yes,  pritty 
briefly — wid  me  er  little  erhead  an'  dead  sho'  ob 
winnin'.  I  wuz  jes'  wunderin'  which  one  ob  his 
las'-year  coats  ole  Marster  would  gib  me  ter 
marry  in  an'  if  Mistis  wouldn't  bake  er  cake, 
when  all  at  onc't  my  mule — " 
99 


Songs  and  Stories 

"  Come,  come,"  I  said,  "  don't  make  up  any- 
thing. Tell  it  just  as  it  was." 

The  old  man  really  looked  hurt  as  he  remarked  : 
"I  see  yo'  ain'tfully  posted  on  mules,  'specially 
thurrerbred  mules.  Why,  dey  am  as  different 
frum  bosses  as  de  spirit  ob  a  bat  am  frum  de 
ghost  ob  Ophelia.  Did  you  eber  see  one  run 
erway  ?  Now,  er  boss  runs  erway  lak  er  gem- 
man.  He  jes'  gits  skeered  an'  runs  erhead. 
He'll  run  ober  er  court-house  or  ennything  else, 
but  he'll  jes'  keep  on  runnin'.  But  you  jes' 
watch  er  mule  run  erway.  De  fus'  thing  he  do 
is  to  turn  right  roun'  an'  throw  you  out.  Ef  he's 
gwine  north,  an'  de  whole  wurl'  gwine  north  wid 
him,  an'  he  take  er  noshun  ter  run  erway,  he  jes' 
turn  roun'  an'  run  souf.  Don't  make  no  diff'r- 
ence  ter  him  whut's  behin'  him  ;  he's  gwine  back. 
He  lubs  de  past  better'n  ennything  I  ebber  seed. 
He'd  ruther  turn  roun'  an'  run  back  into  Sodom 
an'  Gomorrah  dan  ter  go  straight  erhead  into  glory. 
Now,  when  er  boss  runs  erway  he's  sho'  to  hurt 
hissef ;  hit's  very  seldom  be  hurt  ennything  but 
hissef  an'  de  vehickle.  He'll  bus'  his  head  or 
break  er  leg,  or  skin  hissef  up,  or  do  sumthin'. 
But  you  jes'  show  me  er  man  dat  eber  seed  er 
mule  hurt  hissef  when  he  run  erway.  No,  sah  ! 
Hit's  de  folks  in  de  vehickle  he's  after ;  an'  he 
allers  gits  'em.  He's  de  same  way  erbout  kickin'. 
Watch  er  hoss  kick  you.  He  fus'  lay  back  his 
years,  an'  switch  his  tail,  an'  gib  you  fair  warnin'; 
100 


from  Tennessee 

den,  if  you  don't  git  outen  de  way,  he  kick  you 
ober  like  a  gemman.  But  do  er  mule  do  dat  ? 
No,  sah  !  When  he  gits  ready  to  send  you  to 
kingdum  cum  he  puts  on  his  most  fetchin'  airs. 
You'd  think  kickin'  de  las'  thing  he  gwinter  do. 
You  needn't  be  oneasy  when  you  see  him  switch 
his  tail  an'  back  his  years  an'  sorter  dance  up 
an'  downbehin'  ;  he's  jes'  playin' den.  De  time 
fur  you  ter  pray  am  when  you  see  him  behavin' 
hissef ;  dat's  de  time  when  he  means  bizness. 
When  he  looks  love  outen  his  eyes,  an'  his  years 
pints  to  de  pure,  blue  sky  erbove,  pintin'  sinners 
to  dat  better  Ian',  den's  de  time  fur  you  ter  stay 
outen  his  way. 

"Wai,  sah,  dat's  de  way  de  mule  done.  He  wuz 
jes'  forty  feet  frum  de  wire  when  de  idee  struck 
him  dat  he  wuz  gwine  de  wrong  way.  Dey 
wusn't  nuthin'  dair  ter  skeer  him — nuthin'  but  er 
straight  track.  'Twas  part  ob  de  program  fur  'em 
to  try  an'  skeer  him  all  de  way,  an'  de  boys  hed 
stationed  er  cinnerman  bear  an'  er  Italian  at  de 
fus'  quarter,  thinkin'  dey'd  sho'  bolt  an'  cum 
back.  Now,  er  mule  hates  de  smell  ob  a  bear 
like  he  do  de  thought  of  respecterbility,  but  he 
went  on  by  'em  like  he  neber  seed  'em.  At  de 
haf  de  boys  had  turned  a  cohered  wagon  ober — 
'nuff  to  skeer  a  saddle  an'  blanket — but  my  mule 
went  on  wid  his  tail  up — no  skeer  dair  !  At  de 
three-quarters  dey  turned  some  firecrackers  loose, 
an'  thinks  I,  he'll  sho'  bolt  now  ;  but  dey  both 

101 


Songs  and  Stories 

went  on  jes'  like  dey  bin  fed  on  firecrackers  all 
dair  life.  At  de  distance  flag  de  brass  ban'  got 
in  de  middle  ob  de  track  an'  turned  loose  all  dair 
horns  an'  drums  playin'  '  Run,  Nigger,  Run — -de 
Patterole  Ketch  Ye'— nuff  to  turn  back  de  debbil 
hissef — but  my  mule  run  ober  de  fellow  wid  de 
kittle  drum,  stepped  on  de  drum  head  an'  carried 
it  erlong  pierced  wid  his  lef  hin'  leg  ;  but  jes'  as 
dey  got  to  thirty  feet  ob  de  wire,  wid  eb'rything 
clear,  an'  it  look  lak  ef  dey  tried  to  stop  eben 
dey'd  slide  under,  dey  both  conkluded  dey  wuz 
gwine  de  wrong  way,  an'  both  ob  'em  whirled. 
But  I  wuz  'termined  not  to  git  beat,  an'  dey  said 
both  ob  us — me  an'  de  yuther  rider — lef  de  saddle 
'bout  de  same  time  an'  sailed  through  de  air  like 
er  pair  of  turkey  buzzards  on  er  windy  day.  I 
went  under  de  wire  fus'  an'  landed  on  de  hard 
groun'  on  my  head  an'  mouth,  fur  which  I  wuz 
mighty  thankful,  fur  if  I'd  landed  on  my  feet  I'd 
er  broke  my  legs  sho'.  I  got  up  an'  ole  Marster 
cum  up  laffin'  an'  said  :  '  Wash,  de  gal's  yourn, 
you  beat  de  yudder  nigger  by  er  lip — a  close 
shave — but  you  went  under  de  wire  fus'.  You've 
got  de  bes'  head  fur  er  race  I  eber  seed,'  he  said, 
es  he  felt  my  head  to  see  if  it  wus  busted.  An' 
ernudder  man  laughed  an'  said,  when  he  looked 
at  my  mouth,  all  swelled  up  :  '  Hardly  er  lip, 
Colonel,  fur  ef  he  had,  he'd  er  left  de  yudder 
nigger  at  de  las'  quarter  !' 
"But  I  got  de  gal  !" 

IO2 


from  Tennessee 


THE  TENNESSEE  GIRL  AND  THE  PACING 

MARE. 

THE  Tennessee  girl  and  the  pacing  mare  are  a 
pair  I  can  never  separate  in  my  thoughts. 
When  I  think  of  the  one  I  see  the  other,  and  when 
I  see  the  other  I  think  of  the  one.  They  go  to- 
gether much  better  than  Jonathan  and  David,  or 
Damon  and  Pythias  ;  and  they  travel  along  life's 
road  with  a  great  deal  less  friction  than  either 
would  go  with  a  male  companion.  They  are  a 
pair  of  females  entirely  bent  on  femininity. 

The  bottom  may  drop  out  of  the  universe  ; 
political  parties  may  rise  and  fall  ;  hades  may  boil 
out  of  Mount  Vesuvius,  and  horses  of  the  male 
persuasion  may  break  the  records  of  the  world, 
but  the  Tennessee  girl  and  the  old  mare  are  only 
bent  on  preserving  the  chastity  of  the  female  race 
as  they  shuffle  along  down  a  sunshiny  pike  to 
carry  a  hank  of  yarn  and  a  brace  of  spring 
chickens  to  another  pair  of  the  same  gender  living 
about  three  miles  further  on. 

The  girl  is  demure,  modest  and  sweet.  The 
old  mare  is  demure,  modest  and  fleet.  The  girl 

'  O 

103 


Songs  and  Stories 

is  shyer  than  a  sixteen-year-old  nymph  clad  in 
a  petticoat  of  sea  foam,  before  the  mirror  of  the 
Olympian  gods.  The  old  mare  is  more  timid 
than  a  fawn  in  a  herd  of  buffalo.  The  Seventh 
Regiment  Band,  in  full  regalia,  could  not  march 
by  the  damsel  with  enough  eclat  to  make  her 
peep  out  from  under  her  sunbonnet  long  enough 
to  see  the  color  of  their  uniforms ;  and  forty 
thousand  of  them  could  not  make  the  old  mare 
look  around  unless  their  martial  music  happened 
to  stampede  the  shuffling  sorrel  offspring  ambling 
behind  her — then  she'd  ride  over  the  regiment  to 
get  to  it.  So  would  the  girl. 

But  the  sorrel  offspring  does  not  really  belong 
in  this  duo.  He  is  looked  on  as  a  necessary  evil 
which  is  liable  to  happen  in  the  early  spring  days 
of  April  or  May.  When  the  hazy  gleam  settles 
over  the  landscape  in  the  twinkling  glow  of  au- 
tumn's aftermath,  he  goes  out  of  their  life  and 
existence.  Perhaps  he  has  grown  too  large  ; 
perhaps  too  saucy  ;  perhaps  too  much  of  a  man 
to  be  allowed  the  companionship  of  this  pair  who 
worship  at  the  shrine  of  Vesta  and  yet  live  in  the 
hope  of  one  day  making  it  uncomfortable  for  a 
male  man  and  his  unregenerate  offspring  when 
cleaning-up  day  comes  round  !  In  the  fall,  then, 
the  colt  will  be  missing.  But  the  girl  rides  on  and 
says  nothing  ;  while  the  old  mare  merely  paces 
along  in  a  gradually  increasing  ratio  of  avoirdupois 
till  next  spring.  Then  you  may  meet  a  trio  again. 
104 


from  Tennessee 

The  Tennessee  girl  is  a  born  rider.  No  silk 
hat  with  half  a  white  goose-feather  adorns  her 
shapely  head.  No  long  riding  skirt  streams  un- 
der her  horse's  flanks,  or  flutters  out  behind  to 
frighten  the  steeds  of  unsuspecting  passers-by. 
No  gloves  that  reach  to  her  elbows.  No  silver- 
mounted  English  whip  that  abruptly  stops  in  its 
make-up  about  the  place  you  think  the  whip 
ought  to  begin  ;  no  goggle  glasses,  hair  in  a 
Psyche  knot,  and  look  a  la  liaitteur — no  ;  that  isn't 
the  Tennessee  girl  on  the  old  mare  ;  that's  the 
city  girl  that's  riding  for  fun.  The  girl  we  are 
talking  about  never  got  on  a  horse  for  fun  in  her 
life. 

A  snow-white  sunbonnet  with  a  few  stray 
curls  peeping  out  from  under.  It  is  tied  with  a 
double  bow-knot  under  the  chin  and  two  streamers 
play  in  the  wind  behind.  A  blue  calico  skirt 
comes  down  nearly  far  enough  to  hide  a  pretty 
foot  that's  got  a  good  hold  on  a  solid  steel  stirrup. 
Where  is  the  other  foot,  you  ask  ?  Come,  don't 
be  too  inquisitive.  The  Tennessee  girl  has  two  ; 
the  other,  with  its  necessary  attachment,  has  got 
a  grip  on  the  pommel  of  the  saddle — and  a  Co- 
manche  princess  can't  stick  there  tighter.  A  pair 
of  woolen  mittens  cover  chubby  hands  that  know 
how  to  hold  bridle  reins — and  there  she  goes,  one 
hundred  and  forty-five  pounds  of  solid  "gal  "  in 
a  saddle  her  great-grandmother  rode  over  "  from 
North  Callina  in." 

105 


Songs  and  Stories 

The  Tennessee  girl  is  the  best  female  rider — ah! 
beg  your  pardon,  equestrienne  they  call  it  now — 
in  the  world.  And  yet  nobody  ever  saw  such 
riding  !  She  rolls  in  the  saddle  with  every  motion 
of  the  old  mare.  She  is  the  most  unstable-look- 
ing thing  in  the  saddle,  to  be  as  solid  as  she  is, 
I  ever  saw.  She  sits  her  horse  like  a  forty-ton 
flatboat  on  the  roll  of  a  wave,  and  yet  she  goes 
ahead  like  a  graceful  yacht  in  mid-ocean  on  the 
crest  of  a  billow.  She  will  fool  you  to  death.  It 
is  painful  for  a  tenderfoot  to  behold  her  ride.  His 
first  thought  will  be  to  rush  up  and  save  her 
from  falling  off  ;  his  second  to  stand  and  see  her 
fall — a  mishap  no  one  has  ever  yet  seen,  not  un- 
less the  double  girth  broke.  Down  the  pike  she 
goes — while  the  spectator  is  waiting  to  pick  her 
up — following  every  curve  and  rolling  with  every 
roll  of  the  pacing  mare,  all  the  time  in  unison, 
toppling  but  never  falling,  swaying  but  never 
breaking,  easy,  jolly,  joyous,  forgetful,  unthink- 
ing, unaffected  ;  she  can  ride  out  of  a  storm  like 
Diana,  pace  home  in  a  curve-line  of  beauty,  or 
gallop  with  her  brother  over  the  field  like  a 
princess  of  the  Montezumas. 

And  don't  you  discount  on  the  old  pacing  mare. 
As  sleepy  as  she  looks  and  as  unconcerned  and 
all  that,  she  is  the  deadest  game  thing  under 
heaven  !  She  carries  the  blood  of  the  desert — 
the  memory  of  fifty  Derbys  in  her  veins  !  She  is 
the  same  the  world  over,  and  would  just  as  soon 
106 


from  Tennessee 

throw  speed  amid  the  sand  hills  of  Sahara  as 
among  the  roses  of  Andalusia.  She'll  bring  race 
mules  if  bred  to  a  jack,  throw  "  B  B"  bread- 
winners if  mated  with  mustangs,  and  give  us 
world-beating  Pointers  when  bred  to  her  equal. 
She  carries  the  girls  to  church  like  a  three-year- 
old,  takes  the  old  lady  to  meetin'  like  a  forty- 
year-old,  carries  the  old  man  on  a  nightly  fox 
hunt  like  Tarn  O'Shanter's  "  Meg  "  with  a  witch 
at  her  tail,  and  yet  brings  him  home,  when  he 
gets  drunk,  at  daylight,  as  slowly  and  solemnly 
as  the  burial  of  Sir  John  Moore.  She  will  kill  a 
dozen  mules  in  a  plow,  would  make  a  sway-back 
elephant  ashamed  of  himself  when  she  backs  her 
ears  and  throws  herself  in  the  collar  of  a  stalled 
wagon,  and  on  general  principles  will  pull  any- 
thing she  is  hitched  to,  from  a  log  wagon  to  a 
sucker's  leg,  and  in  her  friskier  moods  will  throw 
anything  from  a  race  horse  to  a  horse  race  ! 

She  eats  less,  works  more,  lives  longer,  says 
less,  than  any  animal  under  the  sun,  and  springs 
more  unexpected  speed  from  unexpected  places 
than  a  dozen  jack-rabbits  in  a  sedge  field  !  She 
is  homely  in  her  old-fashioned  ways,  yet  glorious 
in  her  grit  !  Leggy  in  her  angularity,  yet  beau- 
tiful in  her  strength.  Solemn  in  her  Scotch-Irish 
honesty,  yet  brilliantly  humorous  when  she  takes 
the  bit  and  tries  to  pace  a  2:10  clip  in  her  old  age. 
Modest  and  gentle  as  a  nun's  dream  of  her  first 
love,  yet  as  fiery  and  aggressive  as  a  helmeted 
107 


Songs  and  Stories 

knight  in  an  honor  quarrel.  Homely  she  may  be, 
plain,  painfully  plain,  and  yet  to  me,  when  I 
know  what  is  slumbering  there,  she  is 

Moulded  as  trim  as  a  gatling  gun, 
And  full  to  the  brim  of  its  fire  ! 

Nothing  can  stop  the  Tennessee  girl  and  the 
old  mare.  Nature,  recognizing  their  claims,  keeps 
the  sun  shining,  the  sweet  birds  singing,  the  winds 
playing  and  the  brooks  dancing  when  the  precious 
pair  start  down  the  pike.  Even  the  toll-gates — - 
brazen  evidences  of  corporations  and  cruel  ob- 
structionists of  freedom  and  unrestrained  prog- 
ress— fail  to  stop  them. 

"  Your  toll,  please,"  said  the  gate-keeper,  as  a 
pair  of  them  came  to  a  halt,  recently,  when  the 
gate  swung  up. 

"  But  do  we  have  to  pay  toll  ?"  asked  the  fair 
rider,  with  a  look  so  full  of  pretty  injured  inno- 
cence as  to  make  the  hard-hearted  collector  in- 
wardly swear  he  would  never  collect  another  toll 
as  long  as  he  lived. 

"Certainly,  Miss;  five  cents,  if  you  please; 
here  are  the  regulations  " — 

A  carriage  and  horses,     .     .     .  25c 

A  wagon  and  team,    .     .     .     .  I5c 

A  buggy  and  horse,    ....  loc 

A  man  and  horse, 5c 

108 


from  Tennessee 

"A  man  and  a  horse  !  Why,  we  are  a  gal 
and  a  mare,"  said  the  Tennessee  girl,  as  she  rode 
on  through,  after  casting  a  withering  look  on  the 
abject  keeper,  who  was  trying  to  skulk  off  and 
hang  himself. 


109 


Songs  and  Stories 


"DICK." 

HIS  real  name  was  Richard  Augustus  Wash- 
ington La  Fayette — that  was  all.  He 
ought  to  have  had  a  surname,  but  he  didn't,  for 
he  was  just  a  little  darkey  belonging  to  Major 
Richard  Augustus  Robinson,  one  of  the  aristocrats 
of  Middle  Tennessee,  thirty-odd  years  ago,  and 
who  counted  his  negroes  as  he  did  his  flocks — on 
a  hundred  hills.  According  to  custom,  Dick's 
surname  should  have  been  Robinson — Richard 
Augustus  Washington  La  Fayette  Robinson- 
only  nobody  had  taken  time  to  think  of  it,  and 
Dick  was  too  little  to  think  for  himself. 

"  And  as  for  hunting  up  names  for  my  negroes," 
remarked  the  Major  on  several  occasions,  "  it's  as 
much  as  1  can  do  to  name  my  colts  and  register 
my  Shorthorns." 

But  Richard  Augustus  was  all  right.  His 
"  mammy  "  had  a  literary  turn  of  mind,  and 
when  Dick  was  a  year  old  she  named  him  for  her 
master,  Washington  and  La  Fayette — "  the  three 
greates'  men  dat  eber  libbed  " — as  she  herself 
declared  ;  and  then,  having  duly  notified  her 
1 10 


from  Tennessee 

world  at  the  "  quarters,"  she  promptly  forgot  all 
about  Dick  and  his  name,  too,  in  the  more  inter- 
esting event  of  declaring  a  pair  of  dividends — 
twin  dividends,  as  it  were — for  the  Robinson 
plantation.  These  required  two  more  names — a 
mental  task  too  much  even  for  a  person  of  her 
well-known  intellectuality,  and  so,  unfortunately 
for  Richard  Augustus  Washington  La  Fayette,  in 
the  mental  disgust  that  followed,  she  boiled  down 
the  greatest  men  in  history  into — Dick. 

And  Richard  was  himself  on  all  occasions. 
With  him  life  was  one  perpetual  Sunday,  even 
after  he  grew  big  enough  to  leave  "  old  Granny," 
the  wrinkled  and  wizardly  witch  of  an  octo- 
genarian whose  duty  it  was  to  take  care  of  the 
two  score  pickaninnies  of  various  ages,  "  at  the 
quarters,"  while  their  mothers  helped  out  in  the 
crops.  And  what  glorious  fun  Dick  had,  picking 
little  baskets  of  cotton  by  day,  for  work,  hunting 
possums  by  night,  and  breaking  the  colts  on  Sun- 
day for  religious  diversion  !  Chittlings,  crack- 
ling-bread, hoe-cake,  'simmon  beer  and  bacon  ! 
These  were  his  till  there  was  one  endless  cackle 
in  his  laugh,  one  continual  ring  of  grease  around 
the  hole  in  his  face,  one  everlasting  brewery  in 
his  heart.  He  ate  so  much,  so  often  and  so  sys- 
tematically, that  his  cocoanut-protruding  forehtad 
was  as  polished  as  a  black  ivory  ball,  and  the 
small  spot  of  ebony  abdomen  that  stuck  out 
through  the  slit  in  his  one  garment — a  hickory 


Songs  and  Stories 

shirt  that  came  down  to  his  heels— looked  not  un- 
like the  crown  of  a  last  year's  derby  greased  with 
bear's  grease. 

Freedom  !  Not  much  of  it  did  Dick  want.  In 
fact,  I  think,  like  the  rest  of  his  race,  Dick  missed 
the  idea  altogether,  as  a  great  many  people  now- 
adays have  missed  it.  Dick  never  had  studied 
the  subject  much,  but  somehow  or  other,  way 
down  in  his  little  philosophical  heart  he  had 
learned  that  slaves  are  sometimes  free,  while 
freemen  are  often  slaves. 

Ah,  Dick,  there  are  more  slaves  to-day  than  on 
the  day  I  first  saw  you,  thirty-three  years  ago, 
as  you  rode  the  bay  filly  down  the  long  lane 
while  the  twilight  shadows  pirouetted  the  cows 
you  were  driving  home  into  colossal  oxen.  Yes, 
a  lot  more. 

It  is  true  they  don't  go  by  that  name,  Dick,  but 
oh,  Dick,  names  are  not  even  surface  indicators 
in  this  world.  There  are  so  many  slaves  in  the 
world  to-day,  Dick,  that  sometimes  I  hope  we 
will  find  the  north  pole  and  start  a  new  republic, 
not  alone  for  the  poor  white  and  the  poor  black 
slaves  now  in  the  world,  those  who  have  to  pinch 
and  starve  and  toil  and  turn  the  grindstone  of 
destiny  as  you  and  yours  never  had  it  to  do, 
Dick,  but  also  as  a  place  where  every  voluntary 
slave  to  passion  and  avarice,  sin  and  shame, 
may  enter,  and,  by  God's  help,  get  another 
start  in  life.  For 

112 


from  Tennessee 

O,  the  tyranny  of  the  master,  Poverty, 
And  O,  the  whip  of  the  master,  Sin, 

And  O,  the  hounds  of  Squalor  and  Misery, 
And  O,  the  driver  that  drives  them  in  ! 

They  say  that  not  even  our  greatest  scholars 
of  to-day  could  talk  in  Latin  or  Greek,  were  they 
placed  back  two  thousand  years  ago  in  Rome  or 
Athens.  And  they  say  it  is  because  our  thoughts 
do  not  come  into  our  minds  the  same  way — that 
they  do  not  originate  in  the  same  manner,  and 
hence  cannot  be  expressed  in  similar  construction 
to  those  of  the  dead  languages.  The  germ-cell 
of  the  thought,  so  to  speak,  has  been  lost.  And 
so  it  was  with  Dick.  Freedom  could  not  enter 
his  mind  because  there  was  no  brain-cell  there 
for  it,  and  none  in  his  ancestors  before  him.  That 
for  which  the  Saxon  would  die  was  lacking  in 
Dick.  Happy  Dick  !  He  was  like  a  blackbird 
born  in  a  cage  ! 

But  if  Dick  didn't  have  his  freedom  bump  de- 
veloped there  was  one  he  did  have,  and  that  was 
— love.  Dick  loved  everybody,  but  he  loved  "  ole 
Marster  "  best  of  all.  Before  he  could  walk  well, 
he  used  to  watch  the  tall,  gray-haired  Major  dis- 
mount from  his  big,  stocking-legged  chestnut 
horse  when  he  came  in  from  riding  over  the  farm, 
and  as  he  would  stalk  by  Dick  and  stop  to  play- 
fully crack  his  riding  whip  at  him,  instead  of  run- 
ning away  in  half-feigned  terror  and  grinning  at 
XI3 


Songs  and  Stories 

the  stately  joker  as  the  other  darkies  did,  Dick 
would  crawl  up  to  him  like  a  frousy  spaniel  and 
with  his  long  monkey  fingers  he  would  pick  the 
cockle-burs  and  beggar  lice  from  his  master's  leg- 
gings, and  do  it  with  the  air  of  a  dog  when  its 
owner  deigns  to  rub  its  back  with  his  foot. 

As  he  grew  older  Dick  was  taken  by  the  Major 
"to  the  big  house  "  to  wait  on  him.  Then  in- 
deed was  Dick's  cup  full. 

But  one  day  Dick's  cup  was  fuller.  It  ran  over. 
At  one  bound  he  leaped  into  fame,  and,  what 
was  better  for  Dick — -his  master's  heart.  And 
this  is  the  way  it  happened. 

Major  Robinson  was  a  noted  horseman.  He 
owned,  as  was  thought,  the  best  in  the  land. 
His  neighbor,  Colonel  Sellers,  was  also  a  noted 
horseman,  and  the  Colonel  was  quite  positive 
that  his  were  the  best  in  the  land.  The  pride  of 
each  one's  heart  was  a  magnificent  saddle  stallion 
— and  two  grander  horses,  in  truth,  could  not  be 
found  in  a  day's  ride.  Each  could  pace  like  a 
pickerel  and  go  as  many  saddle  gaits  as  a  rocking 
chair  on  a  steamboat  deck.  In  looks — well,  had 
Rosa  Bonheur  seen  them,  there  would  have  been 
two  more  of  her  famous  pictures  in  the  Royal 
Gallery.  The  Major's  horse  was  a  splendid 
chestnut,  as  perfect  as  a  Tennysonian  poem,  full 
of  thoroughbred  blood  from  nose  to  heel,  and 
known  as  Traveler.  The  Colonel's  was  a 
beautiful  bay,  as  rounded  as  one  of  Johnson's 
114 


from  Tennessee 

periods,  equally  as  well  bred  as  Traveler,  and 
known  as  Pilgrim. 

In  those  days  questions  of  superiority  in  saddle 
horses  were  decided  in  the  show  ring.  Only 
thoroughbreds  raced.  With  the  saddler  it  was 
looks  and  gaits.  With  the  thoroughbred,  speed. 

But  Dick  changed  all  that.     Bright  Dick  ! 

These  two  famous  horses  naturally  met,  time 
and  again,  in  the  show  ring  ;  and,  being  so  nearly 
matched  in  breeding  and  gaits,  sometimes  Trav- 
eler would  be  awarded  first  prize,  and  then  it 
would  fall  to  Pilgrim.  Year  after  year  did  this  go 
on,  throughout  the  fairs  of  middle  Tennessee,  un- 
til finally  it  became  merely  a  question  of  who 
were  the  judges,  as  to  which  would  win.  At  first 
the  thing  was  humorous,  but  it  soon  became  ex- 
citingly serious  ;  for  as  everybody  in  Tennessee, 
where  a  horse  is  involved,  will  take  sides  one  way 
or  the  other,  soon  all  the  country  were  Travelers 
or  Pilgrims.  Small  wonder  they  could  not  keep 
still  !  Tennessee  has  always  been  a  battleground 
for  something.  Before  the  white  man's  foot 
touched  its  soil  it  was  the  battle  ground  of  the 
Indians,  the  hunting  ground  of  the  nations. 
Jackson  made  it  for  forty  years  the  battle  ground 
of  national  politics,  and  Fort  Donelson,  Shiloh, 
Murfreesboro,  Chickamauga,  Mission  Ridge, 
Franklin  and  Nashville,  these,  alas,  have  made 
it  the  battle  ground  of  death  ! 

Tennesseeans  love,  indeed,  a  battle  ground  of 


Songs  and  Stories 

some  kind.  Politics  suits  them  best ;  if  this  fails, 
they  are  delighted  to  battle  it  out  among  the 
churches  ;  and  if  both  fail — look  out  for  a  horse 
race  ! 

And  so  it  was  in  this  instance — both  politics  and 
religion  were  relegated  to  the  background.  Peo- 
ple no  longer  were  Whigs  and  Democrats ;  they 
were  Robinsonites  and  Sellersites,  and  instead  of 
Baptists  and  Methodists  they  became  Travelers 
and  Pilgrims.  Old  fellows  who  had  been  at  po- 
litical outs  all  their  lives  got  gloriously  fraternal 
on  a  platform  that  declared  the  Traveler  horse 
to  be  the  best  horse  under  the  sun,  while  old 
ladies  who  all  their  lives  had  slandered  each 
other  "for  the  love  of  God,"  became  as  twin 
doves  in  the  Pilgrim  creed.  From  these  it 
went  to  politics,  until  the  county  elections 
were  fought  out  on  that  issue.  Then,  indeed, 
did  things  become  serious — families  became 
separated,  lovers  parted  forever,  husbands  and 
wives  were  divorced  on  the  subject  of  which 
was  the  better  horse  !  In  the  first  election  the 
Travelers  captured  the  sheriff  and  county  clerk — 
they  had  the  military  strength,  but  the  Pilgrims 
held  the  coffers,  for  they  elected  the  trustee  and 
the  tax  assessor.  A  revolution  threatened  to 
disrupt  the  social  fabric  of  the  county  and  bloody 
war  was  imminent  when  Dick — the  little  wizard 
philosopher — settled  the  entire  thing  to  his  own 
everlasting  honor  and  the  dignity  of  the  state. 
116 


from  Tennessee 

How  he  came  to  think  of  it,  I  do  not  know.  But 
one  day  that  fall  when  things  were  at  a  crisis,  when 
Traveler  had  beaten  Pilgrim  in  the  show  ring  for 
the  fortieth  time  to  the  Pilgrim  horse's  thirty- 
ninth  as  against  Traveler,  when  young  men  were 
fighting  duels  on  the  subject  and  old  men  were 
calling  each  other  names,  Dick  sat  out  in  front  of 
Traveler's  stall  combing  his  own  head  with  a 
curry-comb,  as  was  customary  with  his  race. 
Now,  I  do  not  know  for  certain,  but  I  have  always 
believed  it  was  the  curry-comb  that  put  the  idea 
in  Dick's  head,  because  I  have  often  noticed  that 
when  people  want  very  earnestly  to  think  of 
something,  they  always  scratch  their  heads.  It 
follows  as  a  necessary  conclusion  that  if  there  is 
any  virtue  in  the  scratching  at  all,  it  would  also 
follow  that  the  harder  the  heads  were  scratched 
the  brighter  would  be  the  thought  result.  Now 
Dick  was  combing  away  with  all  his  might,  for 
the  kinks  stuck  out  defiantly  over  his  head,  and 
all  will  admit  that  the  idea  evolved  was  simply 
brilliant.  Hence  the  theorem,  as  the  geometries 
say. 

".\\arster,  does  yo'  kno'  Traveler  kin  pace 
mighty  fast?"  asked  Dick  as  Major  Robinson 
came  out  to  see  to  the  feeding  of  his  horse. 

The  Major  smiled.  "Of  course  I  do,  Dick. 
Why?" 

"  But  does  yo'  kno'  he  kin  pace  mighty  briefly 
—mighty  briefly?"  repeated  Dick,  earnestly. 


Songs  and  Stories 

"You  know  I  do,"  said  the  Major ;  "  but  how 
did  you  find  it  out  ?  Have  you  been  pacing  this 
horse  to  water?"  asked  his  master,  a  trifle 
sternly. 

"No,  sah  !"  said  Dick,  in  a  tone  of  deeply 
grieved  innocence.  And  then  he  laughed. 

"But  Marster,  ef  yo'd  axed  me  ef  I'd  bin 
pacin'  'im  frum  water,  I'd  hafter  tell  yo'  de  truth. 
Fur  tuther  day  I  rid  'im  down  to  de  crick,  an' 
when  er  thunderstorm  cum  up  I  had  to  run  home 
er  git  wet.  I  tried  to  make  'im  run,  but  he 
wouldn't,  he  jes'  paced  lak  er  flyin'  Kildee — an' 
he  beat  de  shower  by  a  good  length.  Wan't  dat 
pacin'  frum  water  ?"  and  Dick  grinned  again. 

The  Major  had  to  laugh,  too. 

"  Marster,"  said  Dick  solemnly,  "  'peers  to  me 
dis  way  ob  showin'  hosses  in  de  ring  ain't  no 
way  to  tell  which  am  de  bes'.  Enny  fat  hoss 
kin  git  er  prize,  but  it  takes  grit  to  win  er  race, 
an'  de  hoss  dat  ought  to  hab  de  prize  am  de  hoss 
dat  kin  go — dat's  got  de  win'  an'  de  lim'  an'  de 
bottom  an'  de  head  to  stay  dar.  Dat's  de  hoss 
wuff  sumpin',  ain't  it  ?" 

The  Major  smiled.     "Yes,  Dick,  but  why  ?" 

Dick  jumped  up  with  intense  earnestness  in 
every  feature.  "  Marster,  Murster,"  he  shouted, 
"jes'  challenge  de  Pilgrim  folks  fur  er  pacin' 
race  !  Make  it  fo'  miles— dat'll  settle  it,  an'  "— 
lowering  his  voice  to  a  confidential  whisper — • 
"  yo'  kno'  Trabler's  got  de  blood  to  stay  !" 
i  18 


from  Tennessee 

The  Major  caught  at  the  idea  in  a  moment. 
Up  to  that  time  pacing  races  were  practically  un- 
heard of  in  the  state.  The  idea  was  novel,  and, 
certainly,  as  Dick  said,  would  "  settle  it."  With- 
out a  word  he  turned  on  his  heels,  went  to 
his  library,  and  promptly  challenged  the 
owner  of  Pilgrim  to  a  four-mile  pacing  race 
for  a  purse  of  five  thousand  dollars.  The  chal- 
lenge was  as  promptl\'  accepted  by  Colonel  Sel- 
lers ;  and  Dick — poor  little  Dick — I  claim  for  him 
here  the  honor  of  being  the  originator  of  pacing 
races  in  Tennessee  ! 

It  is  needless  to  say  the  count}'  was  out  to  see 
that  race.  The  boy  who  rode  Pilgrim  was  nearly 
grown  and  quite  strong,  while  Dick  was  but  ten 
years  old  and  a  midget  at  that.  When  they  came 
out  on  the  track  for  the  word  Traveler  was  so 
keen  to  go  and  so  powerful  withal,  that,  by  merely 
fighting  half  restlessly  the  bit,  he  jerked  Dick 
about  the  saddle  as  a  cork  on  a  billow. 

"  Marster,"  said  Dick,  as  he  rode  up  to  where 
Major  Robinson  stood,  "  I  ain't  'feered  of  but  one 
thing.  Won't  you  do  me  er  favor  ?" 

"  What  is  it,  Dick  ?"  asked  the  Major,  as  he 
caught  the  strong  horse  by  the  bit  to  see  what 
the  boy  wanted. 

"I'm  ''feered  1  can't  hoi'  him  down,"  said 
Dick,  "  I'm  so  light.  Won't  you  let  'em  tie  me 
in  de  saddle  ?" 

The  Major  shook  his  head.  "  No,  no,  Dick," 
119 


Songs  and  Stories 

he  said.  "  That  would  be  cruel  and  treating  you 
unfairly.  The  horse  might  run  away,  or  fall,  and 
I  had  rather  lose  the  race  than  see  you  hurt.  Do 
the  best  you  can  as  it  is." 

"  An'  I'd  ruther  die  than  lose  de  race,  Marster," 
said  Dick,  determinedly.  "Tie  me  in,  an' ef 
ennything  happens  I  won't  blame  you." 

The  Major  reluctantly  yielded  to  the  boy's  en- 
treaties. A  strong  girth  was  passed  over  Dick's 
thighs  as  he  sat  in  the  saddle  and  tightly  buckled 
around  the  horse  ;  the  word  was  soon  given  and 
they  were  away. 

The  horses  paced  like  a  team,  both  riders  hold- 
ing them  down  for  fear  they  would  break.  At 
the  first  mile  they  had  become  thoroughly  warmed 
to  the  work  and  were  steady  enough  to  be  given 
their  heads  more  freely.  At  the  second  mile 
Dick  led  by  a  length,  and  at  the  third  he  had 
gotten  still  swifter  and,  owing  to  a  break  of  Pil- 
grim, he  was  ten  good  lengths  ahead,  and  his 
horse  moving  like  machinery.  But  here  the  un- 
expected happened.  Dick  was  too  light  for  the 
powerful  animal.  Scarcely  had  he  passed  the 
third  mile  going  at  a  terrific  speed,  when  Trav- 
eler, taking  the  bit  in  his  teeth,  and  having  in- 
sufficient weight  at  the  reins,  pulled  Dick,  saddle 
and  all,  slightly  forward,  and  then,  to  the  horror 
of  all,  the  saddle  turned,  and  the  boy  and  the 
saddle  were  seen  dangling  under  the  powerful 
horse's  belly,  while  his  flying  feet  appeared  likely 


from  Tennessee 

at  any  moment  to  end  Dick's  life  and  race  at  the 
same  time.  And  to  a  larger  rider  tied  as  Dick 
was,  such  would  have  been  the  result.  But  not 
so  with  wiry  little  Dick  ;  his  presence  of  mind 
did  not  forsake  him.  With  both  hands  he  grasped 
the  surcingle  band  which  ran  around  the  horse's 
neck,  dug  his  sharp  heels  into  Traveler's  flanks, 
and  stuck  there  closer  than  a  flying  squirrel  under 
an  oak  limb  ! 

And  the  crowd,  when  they  saw  the  act  and  the 
fact  that  the  gallant  horse  never  broke  his  gait, 
cheered  itself  hoarse.  But  in  an  instant  it  stopped — 
Traveler,  riderless,  had  slackened  his  speed — 
Pilgrim  came  up  and  passed  him  ;  while  Traveler, 
bewildered,  mechanically  followed  several  lengths 
behind.  It  was  all  up  for  the  Major  ! 

But  not  so.  Dick  quietly  waited  in  his  perilous 
position  till  he  turned  into  the  stretch,  and  then 
—the  crowd  went  wild  again — for  Dick,  reckless 
Dick,  turned  loose  his  whip  hand,  gathered  a 
firmer  grip  with  his  left,  swung  out  his  keen  raw- 
hide and  made  Traveler  think  a  hundred  hornets 
had  settled  on  him.  It  was  a  horse  race  from 
there  to  the  wire,  but  Traveler  had  the  speed  and 
went  under  a  half  length  ahead. 

No  wonder  a  hundred  men  seized  his  bridle  and 
cut  Dick  loose  from  his  perilous  position.  No  won- 
der the  Major  himself  picked  him  up  for  joy,  and, 
while  he  declared  ten  thousand  dollars  could  not 
buy  him,  henceforth  he  was  free  ! 


Songs  and  Stories 
II. 

Such  was  Dick  as  I  knew  him,  thirty-three 
years  ago.  Given  his  freedom,  he  refused  to 
leave  his  master  and  Traveler,  but  hung  around 
the  place,  caring  for  the  horses  and  cows,  and 
enjoying  all  the  affections  and  privileges  of  a 
shepherd  dog.  Every  morning  he  would  mount 
the  bay  filly  and  drive  the  cows  to  the  blue  grass 
pasture.  Every  evening  he  would  drive  them 
home.  I  can  see  him  now,  as  he  would  ride  down 
the  long  lane  in  the  twilight.  How  I  used  to  envy 
him  ! — his  jolly  good  nature,  his  graceful  seat  on 
the  restive  filly,  the  beautiful  way  he  had  of 
popping  his  long  whip,  and,  best  of  all,  the  won- 
derful music  in  his  wild  halloo,  sounding  like  a 
bugle  call  : 

"  Time's  up,  time's  up, 
Childun  an'-ah, 
Childun  an'-ah, 
Les'  go  h-o-m-e  !" 

I  don't  think  anyone  living  could  sing  that  as 
Dick  did.  I  did  not  know  then  where  he  got  it, 
but  the  war  soon  taught  me.  It  was  "  Lights 
Out,"  and  I  wish  I  could  put  down  the  music  too, 
so  my  readers  could  tell  exactly  how  Dick  would 
roll  it  out.  But  to  make  it  complete,  I  would  also 
have  to  put  down  the  twilight,  the  song  of  the 
wind  in  the  trees,  the  chirp  of  the  redbird  as  he 

I  22 


from  Tennessee 

went  to  roost,  and  the  glow  of  the  sunset  in  the 
western  sky. 

Home  is  the  most  perfect  word  in  our  language. 
It  fits  the  mouth  better,  fills  the  lungs  fuller,  and 
rolls  out  purer  and  sweeter  and  better  than  any 
word  in  the  English  language.  And  how  Dick 
could  make  it  roll  !  It  would  start  from  his  mouth 
and  rise  and  fall  and  swell  above  the  treetops, 
and  float  over  the  low  hills  and  then  come  back' 
in  an  echo  of  subdued  sweetness  when  it  struck 
the  higher  hills  beyond.  As  Dick  sang  it  there 
was  a  whole  orchestra  in  that  one  word — and 
more  ;  it  was  an  organ,  a  sermon  and  a  prayer. 
And  he  had  caught  the  tune  from  a  bugler — for 
Tennessee  was  full  of  Bragg's  and  Rosecrans' 
soldiers  at  this  time  ;  but  the  words — Dick,  I  sup- 
pose, had  made  them  himself.  A  queer  combina- 
tion !  Apo  lo's  harp  twanged  with  Mars'  bow- 
strings— but  it  was  music. 

Suddenly  Dick  pulled  up  the  filly  with  a  jerk. 
He  listened  and  heard  firing  over  toward  Mur- 
freesboro.  Dick  knew  what  it  meant.  It  was 
Tuesday  evening,  December  30,  the  evening  be- 
fore the  battle  of  Stone  River.  Dick  popped  his 
whip  vigorously.  Then  he  gravely  shook  his 
head. 

"  Sumbody  gwinter  git  hurt  ober  dar  ef  dey 
don't  behave  deysefs.  Dem's  our  men  doin'  dat 
shootin'.  Dat's  ole  Bragg's  bark.  Look  out, 
Rosey  !" 

123 


Songs  and  Stories 

He  rode  on  a  piece  in  silence.  The  firing  grew 
sharper. 

"  VVhut  dese  Yankees  wanter  cum  down  heah 
an'  take  our  niggers  'way  frum  us  fur  ennyway  ? 
VVhut  we  done  to  dem  ?  All  we  ax  'em  ter  do  is 
ter  let  us  erlone,"  and  he  galloped  out  to  head  off 
a  heifer. 

Where  Dick  got  the  sentiments  he  expressed  I 
cannot  say  ;  but  I  do  know  that  Dick  was  no  ex- 
ception to  his  race.  Darkey  like,  he  was  for  his 
home  and  his  white  people  first,  though  the  free- 
dom of  all  his  race  lay  on  the  other  side.  And 
Dick,  like  every  other  negro,  knew  it,  too,  though 
they  worked  on  and  said  nothing. 

Some  day  there  is  going  to  be  a  great  monu- 
ment put  up  in  the  South  by  southern  people. 
And  on  its  top  is  going  to  be  a  negro — not  the 
mythical  slave  with  chains  on  him  and  terror  in 
his  face,  which  fool  artists,  who  never  saw  a  ne- 
gro slave,  and  fool  poets,  who  never  heard  one 
laugh,  are  wont  to  depict — but  the  jolly,  con- 
tented, rollicking  rascal  that  we  knew  and  loved  ; 
the  member  of  our  household  and  sharer  of  our 
joys  and  sorrows.  On  its  top,  I  say,  there  is 
going  to  be  that  kind  of  a  negro,  as  he  was,  and 
he  is  going  to  be  represented  in  the  act  of  picking 
cotton,  with  a  laugh,  while  he  refuses  with  scorn 
a  gun  with  which  to  fight  his  master  for  his  own 
freedom.  When  that  is  done,  it  will  be  the  crown- 
ing monument  of  the  age. 
124 


from  Tennessee 

But  in  Dick's  case  it  was  still  more  remarkable, 
for  Major  Robinson  was  what  was  called  in  Ten- 
nessee at  that  time  "a  Union  man."  He  was 
one  of  that  very  numerous  class  in  Tennessee 
who  voted  as  he  said  Andrew  Jackson  would 
vote — against  secession.  Even  after  the  Gulf 
states  seceded,  these  voted  against  secession  and 
carried  the  state  by  a  large  majority,  in  a  test  of 
that  question.  Afterward,  when  Federal  troops 
invaded  the  state,  the  tide  turned,  and  Tennessee 
seceded.  But  Major  Robinson,  while  he  refused 
to  secede,  also  refused  to  fight  his  own  people. 
Avowedly  for  the  Union,  he  took  no  part  in  the 
war. 

Dick  rode  on  home  rather  seriously  I  thought, 
for  I  again  heard  his  bugle  call  : 

"  Time's  up,  time's  up, 
Chililun  an'-ah, 
Childun  an'-ah, 
Les'  go  h-o-m-e !" 

But  if  Dick  thought  the  evening  skirmish  was 
going  to  hurt  somebody  if  they  didn't  behave,  he 
had  no  doubt  at  all  the  next  morning.  For  just 
at  daylight,  as  he  expressed  it,  "  hell  sut'n'ly 
broke  loose  at  Muffersburrer  " — Rosecrans  with 
forty-three  thousand  men  had  advanced  from 
Nashville  to  strike  Bragg  on  Stone  River,  and 
utterly  crush  him.  But  Bragg  had  a  similar  in- 
tention and  struck  first,  at  daylight,  on  the  last 
I25 


Songs  and  Stories 

day  of  December,  1862.  And  Dick  had  it  right; 
genius  is  genius,  and  Dick  and  a  great  Union 
general  both  used  the  same  expression  in  speak- 
ing of  that  battle. 

All  day  long  Dick  heard  the  boom,  boom, 
boom  of  guns.  For  all  day  long  Cleburne  and 
Hardee,  Polk  and  Cheatham,  Withers  and  Mc- 
Cown  executed  one  continual  charging  left  wheel 
and  rolled  Rosecrans'  right  wing  back,  back,  back, 
for  four  long  miles,  until  the  Federal  lines  were 
doubled  up  on  each  other  at  right  angles,  like  a 
big  bird  with  a  broken  wing.  As  wounded  men 
were  brought  to  the  rear,  and  filled  up  the  farm 
houses  and  yards,  Dick  heard  them  say  that 
Bragg  had  crushed  Rosecrans,  that  the  Federal 
army  was  cut  to  pieces,  that  Shiloh  was 
avenged. 

But  the  next  day  Dick  heard  no  more  guns,  and 
he  learned  that  Rosecrans  had  gotten  between 
the  river  and  the  railroad  embankment,  and  was 
going  to  fight  there  for  life,  madder  than  a  gored 
bull.  All  that  day  Dick  waited  to  see  what  was 
going  to  happen. 

The  next  day  it  happened.  For  Bragg  tried  to 
double  up  the  other  wing.  Then  there  was  an- 
other day  of  boom,  boom,  boom,  until  the  wounded 
were  so  many  and  the  dead  so  thick  that  Dick 
actually  got  used  to  dead  men  and  declared  that 
he  would  never  again  be  afraid  to  go  through  a 
graveyard — "  fur  whut  is  a  grabeyard  whar  dey 
126 


from  Tennessee 

am  under  groun'  an'  you  can't  see  'em,"  he  said, 
"to  a  grabeyard  on  top  de  yearth  whar  you  can't 
walk  for  steppin'  on  'em." 

But  the  wing  wouldn't  double  up.  And  on  the 
third  day  Bragg  quit  and  marched  away.  Dick 
afterward  learned  that  Rosecrans  was  about  to 
march  back  to  Nashville  himself  if  Bragg  hadn't 
been  in  such  a  hurry,  and  that  moved  the  wise 
little  Dick,  in  great  disgust,  to  exclaim  :  "  Bragg 
am  a  good  dog,  but  Holdfas'  am  better  !" 

Bright  Dick  ;  that  was  what  Rosecrans  himself 
said. 

About  a  week  after  the  battle  Dick  went  out 
one  evening  to  feed  Traveler  for  the  night.  To 
his  surprise  an  officer  in  a  blue  uniform  was  stand- 
ing in  the  stable  door,  and  going  into  exaggerated 
praise  of  the  beautiful  animal,  which  a  soldier 
held  by  the  bit  for  his  inspection. 

"Put  'im  back,  gem'men,"  shouted  Dick,  as 
he  rushed  up  excitedly,  "put  'im  back  !  Dat's 
Trabler ;  ole  Marster  don'  'low  nobody  ter  handle 
'im  but  me  !" 

The  officer  laughed.  "He  looks  like  a  pretty 
good  traveler,"  he  said,  "  and  that's  what  I  want 
with  him." 

"  But  you  can't  git  dathoss,  sah,"  expostulated 
Dick.  "He  ain't  fur  sale." 

"  We  don't  want  to  buy  him,"  said  the  soldier 
who  was  holding  the  bit.  "  In  war  time  we  take 
what  we  want." 

127 


Songs  and  Stories 

Dick  waited  to  hear  no  more.     He  vanished. 

In  a  few  minutes  he  came  back  with  Major 
Robinson. 

The  Major  was  astounded.  He  expostulated  ; 
the  soldiers  were  determined.  He  explained  his 
position,  offered  them  other  horses,  and  demanded 
protection.  It  was  of  no  avail.  Then  the  Major 
grew  commanding  and  ordered  them  back.  The 
officer  lost  his  temper  and  foolishly  drew  his  re- 
volver. Foolishly,  I  say,  for  to  a  man  of  Major 
Robinson's  ideas  of  life  and  death  and  honor  he 
simply  invited  a  tragedy — and  it  came.  The 
Major  was  an  old  duelist,  dead  game  and  a  deader 
shot,  and  before  Dick  recovered  his  senses  he 
heard  five  or  six  shots  follow  each  other,  some  in 
and  some  out  of  the  stable  door. 

When  the  smoke  died  away,  an  officer  lay 
dead,  a  soldier  dying,  and  Dick  was  holding 
Traveler's  bit  with  one  hand,  the  stirrup  with  the 
other,  and  begging  his  master  to  fly. 

"  Go  !  Marster,  go  !"  he  begged.  "  Don't  yo' 
heah  de  udder  soldiers  cumin'  ?  Dey  will  kill 
yo'  ef  dey  ketch  yo'  heah  ;  but  dey'll  nurver 
ketch  yo'  on  dis  hoss." 

The  Major  hesitated  :  "You  saw  them,  Dick," 
he  said,  half  sorrowfully.  "They  were  stealing 
my  horse,  and  drew  to  kill  me.  No,  I'll  not  run 
for  defending  my  property  and  my  life." 

A  sound  of  galloping  hoofs  came  up  the  pike. 
A  squad  of  Federal  cavalry  dashed  in  the  front 


from  Tennessee 

gate.  Dick  thrust  his  master's  foot  in  the  stirrup 
and  half  pushed  him  into  the  saddle.  The  Major 
was  convinced  he  had  better  flee,  at  least  until 
he  could  come  back  and  be  sure  of  an  impartial 
trial,  and  as  Dick  turned  loose  the  bit  he  gave 
the  spirited  animal  a  blow  which  made  him  bound 
away  through  a  side  gate  :  "  Take  care  of  your 
mistress,  Dick,"  was  all  the  Major  could  call 
back  before  he  was  gone. 

Dick  picked  up  the  pistol  his  master  had  thrown 
down.  A  squad  of  soldiers  rushed  around  the  house 
to  the  stable.  They  took  in  the  scene  at  a  glance. 

"  Who  did  this  ?"  shouted  one  to  Dick. 

Dick  listened.  He  could  still  hear  Traveler's 
feet  up  the  pike.  His  master  might  yet  be  headed 
off  and  captured  if  he  answered. 

"  Who  did  this  ?"  thundered  the  soldier  again, 
while  several  of  them  cocked  their  pieces. 

Dick  listened  again.  He  could  still  hear  the 
horse's  feet.  An  idea  flashed  into  his  mind.  It 
meant  death  to  him,  he  knew,  but  what  cared 
Dick  if  it  saved  "  ole  Marster  "? 

He  turned  his  head  slowly  and  looked  the  sol- 
diers in  the  eye. 

And  the  eyes  that  looked  so  calmly  into  the 
muzzles  of  their  guns  were  no  longer  those  of  a 
little  negro  slave — they  were  twin  stars  that  lit 
the  lamps  of  Heaven,  while  the  Recording  Angel 
wrote  something  grand  opposite  Dick's  poor  little 
slave  name. 

9  129 


Songs  and  Stories 

"  Heah's  whut  dun  it,"  he  said,  as  he  held  out 
the  pistol,  still  warm — "  dey  wuz  stealin'  Mars- 
ter's  boss,  an'  I  " 

A  volley  followed  instantly. 

"  I  guess  we've  got  the  imp,"  said  a  soldier 
grimly  as  he  watched  the  motionless  figure  now 
lying  in  the  stall  door  between  the  two  blue  uni- 
forms. 

But  suddenly  the  pinched  figure  rose  on  its  el- 
bows and  listened.  The  sound  of  flying  hoofs 
could  no  longer  be  heard  ;  a  smile  of  exquisite 
satisfaction  stole  over  the  grimy  face,  and  de- 
fiantly there  came  back  : 

"  Yes,  you  got  me.  But  you'll  nurver  git  ole 
Marster  on  dat  boss  !" 

And  then,  as  consciousness  forsook  him  and 
the  dark  closed  'round,  he  must  have  thought  it 
was  twilight  and  that  he  was  on  the  bay  filly 
driving  the  cows  home,  for  the  soldiers  heard, 
low  and  soft  as  their  own  bugle  notes — 

"  Time's  up,  time's  up, 
Childun  an'-ah, 
Childun  an'-ah, 
Les'  go  h-o-m-e  !" 

And  Dick's  light  was  out. 


130 


from  Tennessee 


NORA. 

NORA  came  out  of  the  big  farm  gate  and 
strolled  over  where  the  glad  wild  roses 
grew  by  the  fence  and  hung,  cornelian  wreathed, 
on  walls  of  green.  And  her  own  face  rivaled  the 
roses  and  her  eyes  were  brighter  than  the  thrush's 
that  sat,  half-startled,  in  her  rose  leaf  home  in 
the  hedge.  And  her  hair  hung  down  in  golden 
plaits,  like  the  last  two  rays  of  sunset  on  the 
twilighted  west. 

Nora  was  ever  beautiful  ;  but  this  evening  she 
was  divine — because  she  had  tasted  the  divinity 
of  love. 

And  Nora  knew  she  was  in  love.  She  knew  it 
because  she  was  truthful  and  true  and  she  told 
the  truth  to  all  people ;  but  to  herself  she  was 
truer  yet,  and  dared  not  even  to  deceive  herself 
in  so  small  a  thing  as  a  false  wish. 

"  For  false  wishes,"  she  said,  "  are  false  chil- 
dren, and  they  grow  up  to  scoff  and  scorn  the 
parent  heart  that  idly  made  them." 

And  Nora  knew  she  was  in  love,  because  life 
now  was  so  different  from  what  it  was  before. 


Songs  and  Stories 

Besides,  were  not  all  other  things  in  love  ?  The 
roses — did  they  not  bloom  each  morning  with  the 
love-light  in  their  eyes  ?  Had  not  the  thrushes 
mated  and  gone  to  housekeeping  ?  Life — it  was 
so  different  now.  The  wind,  it  never  blew,  but 
frolicked  ;  the  rain,  'twas  but  the  clouds  sprinkling 
the  grass  and  the  flowers.  Her  household  duties 
were  not  tasks,  but  pleasures,  and  the  night  never 
came  now — only  the  stars  to  wink  at  her  in  silent 
happiness  and  bless  her  in  their  sweet,  breathing 
light  ! 

Nora  knew  she  was  in  love. 

"  How  grand  a  thing  it  is  to  be  in  love,"  she 
caught  herself  saying  to  her  heart,  and  blushed 
at  the  thought  of  it.  And  then,  to  hide  her 
sweet  embarrassment,  she  plucked  two  yearn- 
ing roses  and  fancifully  she  held  one  up  to  each 
cheek  to  wed  their  crimson  cousins  there.  "  How 
grand  it  is  !  How  it  lifts  one  up  above  the  com- 
mon things,  to  the  sweet  region  of  that  other 
world  where  each  bright  star  is  hope,  and  every 
crescent  moon  hangs  over  the  harvest  field  of 
love  !  O,  love,  love,  to  change  me  in  so  short 
a  while  !  The  school  girl  to  the  maiden — the 
maiden  to — to — to  his  angel  " — she  laughed  and 
stammered — "  for  has  he  not  himself  a  thousand 
times  told  me  ?  O,"  she  said  aloud,  with  a  little 
surprised  gesture,  as  if  she  had  just  thought  of 
something  wonderful,  something  no  one  had  ever 
thought  of  before,  "  O,  if  being  in  love  makes 
132 


from  Tennessee 

one  so  different,  so  well  satisfied  with  life  and 
glad  to  be  alive,  why  did  not  God  make  us  in  love 
first  and  keep  us  ever  so  ?" 

"  He  did  me,"  said  a  voice  behind  her,  and  the 
roses  on  the  hedge  were  pale  compared  with  those 
that  rushed  to  Nora's  cheeks. 

"  How  could  you,  Tom  ?"  the  girl  laughed  as 
she  pelted  him  with  roses.  "  How  silly  of  me  to 
talk  out  loud  !"  she  added. 

"  How  could  1  love  you  ?"  he  asked  seriously — 
not  noticing  that  she  was  trying  to  turn  his  ques- 
tion into  fun.  "  Don't  ask  me,  Nora — God  must 
answer  that.  I  thought  you  asked  why  God  did 
not  make  us  in  love  at  first  and  keep  us  ever  so, 
and  1  told  you  that  he  did — at  least — me,"  and 
Tom  looked  straight  into  her  honest  eyes. 

But  Nora's  eyes  were  no  longer  laughing. 
They  were  very  serious  and  solemn.  Her  face, 
too,  had  lost  its  playful  smile  as  quickly  as  it  had 
its  scarlet  hue,  and  now  it  was  white — whiter  than 
any  of  the  white  roses.  There  was  something 
in  Tom's  voice  and  look  that  Nora  had  never  seen 
before — a  manliness,  a  strength,  an  independence. 
He  was  passive  and  quiet,  but  Nora  saw  he  was 
stronger  now  than  he  was  the  day  he  tossed  the 
hay  the  highest  on  the  rick,  for  fun  and  a  wager, 
more  resolved  and  powerful  than  when  he  seized 
and  held  the  rearing,  stubborn,  untamed  colt. 

"  O,  Tom  !"  she  said,  as  she  saw  for  the  first 
time  that  Tom,  too,  loved  her.     "  I — " 
133 


Songs  and  Stories 

"  Listen,  Nora,"  said  Tom  quietly.  "  Have  I 
not  always  loved  you  ?  Way  back  when  we 
toddled  together — neighbor  farmers'  children- 
school  days — every  day — all  day — all  the  time — • 
now  ?  If  love  is  happiness,  then  am  I  a  god.  If 
it  is  wealth,  then  I  am  rich  indeed.  For  it  I  am 
thankful — thankful  that  I  have  known  you — 
thankful  that  I  loved  you — love  you  now  and 
always  will.  Although  I  know,"  he  said,  without 
moving  his  eyes  from  her  face,  "that  you  will 
soon  wed  another — 

The  red  roses  came  again.  "O,  Tom, 
please  don't — "  half  deprecatingly,  half  sorrow- 
fully. 

"  No,  Nora,  let  me  talk  now.  Hereafter  my 
lips  are  sealed.  Go  the  way  of  your  heart — 
marry  him.  But  I  ?  I  will  still  love  you.  I  did  not 
create  my  love.  I  did  not  make  it,  neither  can  I 
destroy  it.  I  will  be  better  for  it,  truer,  a  nobler 
man,  I  hope.  I  am  happy  and  yet  miserable. 
Happy  when  I  think  of  you  and  miserable  when 
I  think  you  are  another's.  But  even  in  that 
thought  I  am  happy  because  of  my  love  for  you. 
I  can  find  no  comfort  save  in  one  thought,  and  that 
came  to  me  the  other  night  as  I  sat  thinking  of 
you — your  wedding  day  next  week,"  he  said. 
"  And  I  made  this  myself  because  I  was  so 
wretched  and  I  wanted  something  to  live  by  after 
you  are  married.  I  must  ever  love  you,  ever 
worship  you,  for 


from  Tennessee 

Love  is  a  star, 
To  be  worshiped  afar, 
And,  like  it.  should  be  above  us." 

"  O,  Tom,"  said  Nora,  sadly,  for  her  heart 
ached  for  him,  "  man's  love  is  different  from  ours. 
You  will  think  differently—  '  but  she  was  too 
honest  to  say  more — even  too  honest  to  try  to 
detain  him  as  she  saw  him  walk  sadly  away. 

"  Our  love  should  be  above  us,"  Nora  said  to 
herself  as  she  sorrowfully  watched  him  go  down 
the  road.  "  Ah,  Tom  is  right — mine  is  above  me  ; 
so  brilliant  and  grand  and  bright  and — and — I 
love  him  so  !  But  Tom — poor  Tom,"  she  said  as 
she  went  in  at  the  gate,  for  the  twilight  had 
come,  and  her  father  had  lighted  his  pipe  and 
the  far-off  aroma  of  tobacco  smoke  filled  the  cool 
evening  air. 

II. 

"I  cannot  be  with  you  to-night,  Nora,"  was 
the  way  the  note  read  which  her  father  brought 
her  from  town.  "  I  am  more  than  busy  on  an 
important  case  to  be  tried  to-morrow.  I  have 
studied  up  on  it  for  twelve  months — it  will  be  all 
over  in  a  few  days,  and  then  for  my  Nora  and  the 
other  roses  at  the  old  farm.  I  am  busy  now — so 
busy.  But  in  the  midst  of  all  my  work,  do  you 
know  how  often  I  think  of  you  and  that  I  even 
take  time  to  wonder  why  I  love  you  so  ?  It  is 


Songs  and  Stories 

not  your  purity,  sweetness,  goodness,  truthful- 
ness alone — but  something  that  tells  me  you  are 
so  above  me,  like  a  star  which  no  man  has  ever 
seen  before." 

"  It  will  be  all  over  in  a  few  days,"  said  the 
letter.  Alas,  how  true.  For  the  bright  mind 
went  out  that  night — a  string  in  the  fine  organ- 
ism of  his  high-strung  soul  snapped  under  the 
long  work  and  tension,  and  the  wedding  was  post- 
poned forever. 

^  ^  >•;  >};  :£  ^  i£ 

Nora  did  not  know  how  many  years  had  gone 
by,  but  one  June  day  she  came  out  of  the  big  farm 
gate  and  strolled  over,  as  she  had  years  before, 
where  the  same  roses  grew  on  the  old  stone  fence 
and  hung  just  as  beautifully  around  the  walls. 
And  the  same  love  was  in  her  eyes,  but  it  was  a 
sweet,  sad  love.  The  roses  were  red  as  ever,  but 
her  cheeks  rivaled  them  no  longer.  She  pulled 
the  roses  as  of  yore,  and  they  thought  the  night 
dew  had  fallen  on  them  when  she  raised  them  to 
her  cheeks.  She  looked  up  to  heaven  and  the 
tears  stood  in  her  eyes.  "  Years  ago,"  she  said, 
"  I  stood  here.  I  was  happy — so  happy.  To-day, 
thank  God,  I  am  happier,  far  happier.  Then,  my 
love  was  of  earth.  Now,  it  is  of  heaven.  Then, 
he  was  a  mortal.  Now,  he  is  a  god." 

She  looked  across  the  meadow  to  Tom's  home, 
where  his  children  were  playing  in  the  yard, 
while  the  happy  father  was  bustling  around.  A 
136 


from  Tennessee 

faint  beam  of  pleasure,  that  Tom  was  happy, 
came  over  her  face,  and  she  said  : 

"  Ah,  Tom,  now  you  know  that  man's  love  is 
not  like  woman's  : 

Love  is  a  star, 
To  be  worshiped  afar, 
And,  like  it,  should  be  above  us. 

"Yes,  above  us — above  us, "she  whispered 
through  her  tears,  as  she  looked  up  once  more 
to  the  stars  which  were  just  beginning  to  come 
out  one  by  one,  and  then  she  went  silently  in  at 
the  little  gate. 

And  again  the  aroma  of  tobacco  smoke  floated 
out  in  the  still  evening  air. 


137 


Songs  and  Stories 


THE  SPELLING    MATCH    AT    BIG   SANDY. 

OLD  WASH  came  in  the  other  night  with  his 
head   tied   up,    three   inches   of    sticking 
plaster  under  his  left  eye,   and  a  cheese-cloth 
containing  a  freshly-cut  chicken  gizzard  bound 
under  the  other  one. 

"  Boss,  does  yo'  happen  ter  hab  er  bottle  uv 
arniker  handy  ?"  he  said,  as  he  felt  of  his  head  to 
see  that  his  bandages  were  still  on. 

"  What  in  the  world  is  the  matter  with  you, 
old  man?"  I  asked.  "Any  camp-meeting  or 
revival  going  on  over  about  Indian  Springs  ?" 

"  Wusser'n  dat !"— mournfully. 

"  What !  You  don't  mean  to  say  the  election 
for  deacon  is  still  going  on  ?" 

"Boss,"  solemnly,  "hit's  wusser'n  'lection, 
camp-meetin'  reviler,  lynchin'  er  enything  else. 
We  dun  had  er  spellin'  match  ober  our  way  ': 
and  he  jerked  out  his  left  leg  energetically — "an' 
ef  eber  I  gets  my  han's  on  dat  little  merlatter  up- 
start ob  er  skule  teecher,  Ebernezer  Johnsing, 
he'll  think  de  Angel  Gabriel  done  blowed  his 
trumpet  in  his  lef  year. 

138 


from  Tennessee 

"  You  see,"  he  said,  as  he  wiped  his  mouth  on 
the  back  of  his  hand,  after  I  had  given  him  a 
glass  of  Lincoln'  County,  made  in  1878,  to  ease 
his  misery,  "dar  lies  bin  er  pow'ful  wak'nin'  on 
egucashunal  questions  sence  dey  'lected  me  skule 
commisshuner  ober  dar.  We  'lected  Ebernezer 
Johnsing  es  teecher,  an'  at  de  fus'  meetin'  ob  de 
boa'd,  sez  I  :  '  Johnsing,  how  am  de  bes'  way 
ter  wak'n  dis  degenerit  race  ob  vipers  up  on  de 
impo'tance  ob  eguchashun  ?  I'm  skule  commis- 
shuner heah  now,  an'  sumpin's  gotter  be  dun — 
dis  yer  race  shan't  grow  up  in  ig'rance  an'  de- 
pravity 'roun'  me.' 

"  '  Dar  am  jes'  t\\-ot'ings  needed,'  sez  Johnsing. 
(  We  need  plenty  uv  good  secon'-growth  hick'ry 
an'  now  an'  den  er  spellin'  match,'  an'  den  he 
'splains  whut  er  spellin'  match  wuz.  I  kno'd  I 
wuz  er  good  speller,  an'  dey  cudden't  bust  my 
influence  es  commisshuner  on  dat  line,  an'  I  jes' 
went  right  in  fer  it.  I  got  er  good  egucashun 
right  arter  de  wall,  fer  1  went  ter  skule  fer  six 
mon's  ter  er  lady  frum  Hosting,  dat  b'longed  to  de 
'  Sassiety  fur  Egucatin'  de  Nigger,'  an'  I  took 
mine  early  an'  deep.  I  wuz  jes'  spilin'  ter  show 
dem  niggers  how  er  skule  commisshuner  orter 
spell,  ennyway,  an'  de  naixt  Sund'y  Pawson 
Shadrack  Meeshack  Phillips  read  out  at  de  endob 
de  sarvice  : 

"  '  Dar  will  be  er  highly  amusin'  an'  instructive 
entertainment  at  Big  Sandy  skule  house  naixt 


Songs  and  Stories 

Friday  night  fur  de  risin'  gen'rashun  an'  de  organ 
fun'.  All  am  invited  to  precipitate.' 

"  Wai,  I  went  ober  an'  tuck  all  de  fambly. 
Dar  wuz  er  big  crowd,  an'  de  gals  an'  boys  wuz 
gwinter  end  up  wid  er  dance  an'  er  candy  pullin'. 
It  wuz  pow'ful  hot,  but  dey  would  b'ild  er  big 
fiah  in  de  skule  stove  an'  put  on  er  big  pot  er 
sorghum  fer  candy  stew. 

"  'Skuse  me,  Boss  !" — with  an  expression  of 
intense  pain — "but  de  misery  in  dis  eye  am 
'tickler  'xcruciatin'  jes'  now.  Ernudder  drap 
outen  dat  bottle,  ef  yer  please. 

"Wai,  I  'spected,  ob  co'se,  ter  be  de  one  ter 
gib  out  de  words,  but  dat  Johnsing  nigger  tuck 
me  off  an'  demanded  ter  be  erlowed  to  gib  out 
de  words  hissef,  '  by  virtue  ob  de  persishun  he 
belt,'  he  sed.  '  It's  notbekase  I  can't  spell  all  de 
words  in  de  book,  Brudder  Washington,'  he  say, 
'but  sumtimes  I  gits  er  little  confused  an'  can't 
git  up  de  flow  ob  language  necessary  ter  express 
'em,  an'  ef  I  happen  ter  miss  er  dozen  er  two 
words,  sum  nigger,  not  understandin'  'bout 
my  lack  uv  expressive  language,  might  say  I 
cudden't  spell  an'  spile  my  influence  es  erteacher 
in  de  community.'  I  seed  de  p'int,  an'  'lowed 
him  ter  gib  out  de  words.  Dey  'lected  me  cap'n 
ob  one  side  an'  Brudder  Moses  Armstrong  cap'n 
ob  de  yudder.  We  chused  sides  an'  stood  on  er 
plank  in  de  floor  op'sit  one  ernudder.  Now,  de 
lumber  wuz  green  when  hit  wuz  put  down  fur 
140 


from  Tennessee 

floorin'  an'  bed  shrunk,  an'  dar  wuz  big  cracks 
\vid  ebry  plank.  'Sides  dat,  er  dozen  good  big 
shoats  bed  gone  up  under  de  skule  house,  w'ich 
wuz  on  de  slant  ob  de  hill,  an'  dey  bed  crawled 
es  fur  es  dey  could,  an'  squeezed  deyselves 
erginst  de  groun'  an'  de  flo'  an'  gone  ter  roost. 
Dem  wuz  all  little  t'ings,  but  I've  noticed  in  dis 
life  dat  it  am  de  little  t'ings  dat  happen  ebry  day 
dat  turns  de  tide  at  las'.  Wai,  Johnsing  'lowed 
he  b'leebed  in  objec'  teachin',  an'  wanted  us  ter 
fus'  spell  de  t'ings  layin'  'round  handy.  An' 
he  picked  up  er  bottle  an'  he  sez  to  Moses  Arm- 
strong : 

"  'Spell  dis/ 

"  '  I — n — k  ink,  s — t — a — n  stan,  inkstan',' 
sez  Moses. 

"  '  Right,'  sez  Johnsing,  an'  he  picks  up  a  cheer 
an'  sez  ter  emudder,  'Spell  dis,'  an'  de  yudder 
spell  his  right  erlong  : 

"  '  C— h — double  e — r,  cheer.' 

"  'Right,'  sez  Johnsing. 

"  An'  den  he  looked  at  me  an'  pick  up  er  little 
sharp  stick  dat  he  used  ter  p'int  out  sums  on  de 
boa'd  wid,  an'  he  say  : 

"  '  Brudder  Washin'ton,  spell  dis.' 

"  '  P — i — n — t  pint,  e — r  er,  pinter,'  sez  I. 

"' Dat's  wrong,'  he  say.  'Next,  spell  hit.' 
An'  er  little  nigger  on  de  yudder  side,  not  ten 
yeahs  ole,  an'  in  his  shut-tail,  jumps  up  quickly 
an'  say  : 


Songs  and  Stories 

"  '  P — o— i — n — t  point,  e — r  er,  pointer.' 

"  '  Right,'  sez  Johnsing  ;  Brudder  Washin'ton, 
yo'  will  please  sit  down,  sab.  You  am  trapped.' 

"'Trapped,  de  debbil,'  sez  I,  gettin'  hot. 
'Yo'  tell  me  I  can't  spell  pinter— Hal  P'inter  ? 
Ain't  I  dun  rub  him  off  er  hun'red  times  ?  Ain't 
I  dun  gone  all  ober  de  Gran'  Circus  wid  Marse 
Ed  Geers  ?  Didn't  we  hab  our  pict'res  tuck  at 
Clebeland  togedder — an'  me  er  skule  commis- 
shuner  an'  can't  spell  de  boss  I  raised  ?  Yo'  try 
ter  disgrace  me  heah  wid  dat  little  stick  befo' 
dis  community  dat  thou't  I  knowed  sumpin'  'bout 
er  boss  ?  Yer  blossom  frum  off  en  er  yaller  dog- 
fennel,'  sez  I,  '  I'm  ready  ter  wipe  de  flo'  wid  yo'/ 
an'  I  peeled  erway  at  'im  wid  my  fis'. 

"  Boss,"  said  the  old  man,  solemnly,  "  I  don't 
kno'  how  hit  happened,  but  dey  say  dat  sum  ob 
de  gals,  'spectin'  er  fight,  made  er  break  ter  git 
out  an'  knocked  ober  de  pot  ob  b'ilin'  candy,  an' 
hit  poured  t'rough  de  flo'  on  de  hogs  sleepin'  be- 
low. Nacherly  dez  riz  es  one  hog,  an'  es  dey 
wuz  es  fur  under  de  house  es  dey  cud  go,  w'en 
dey  tried  ter  scrouge  under  furder  ter  git  outen  de 
way  sumpin  bed  ter  bus',  an'  dat  wuz  de  plank 
we  all  wuz  on.  All  1  kno'  is  de  flo'  seemed  ter 
heave  up  an'  I  hit  de  ceilin'  'long  wid  er  dozen 
or  mo'  pettycoats  an'  striped  stockin's.  Some 
fool  nigger  hollered— 

"  '  Yarthquake  !  yarthquake  !  Dinnermite  ! 
dinnermite  !'  an'  when  I  hit  de  flo'  ergin  I  made 
142 


from  Tennessee 

er  leap  fer  de  winder,  t'inkin'  hit  wuz  up.  But 
hit  wuzn't,  an'  I  went  on  t'rough,  carryin'  de 
sash  on  my  neck,  wid  my  haid  sticken'  outen  er 
six-by-eight  pane.  I  muster  galloped  two  mile 
down  de  pike  befo'  I  cum  to  and  seed  whut  er 
collar  I  hed  on. 

"But  look  yere,  Boss" — pulling  a  bandage 
down  under  his  eye — "  doncher  kno'  no  winder 
glass  didn't  git  me  dis  black  eye  ?  An'  look 
yere,  too  "—feeling  a  bump  as  big  as  a  goose  egg 
on  the  side  of  his  head — "doncher  kno'  1  didn't 
git  dat  gallopin'  down  de  road  ?  Dat  Johnsing 
fotch  me  two  licks  jes'  erbout  de  time  de  flo'  riz, 
an'  de  fus'  time  I  ketch  'im  on  de  pike  by  hissef 
I'm  gwinter  teach  'im  how  ter  spell  P'inter  er  re- 
sign my  office,"  and  the  old  man  went  out  to  kill 
a  fresh  chicken  to  poultice  his  head. 


Songs  and  Stories 


HOW    ROBERT  J.  BROKE    THE  RECORD. 

LAST  week  I  took  old  Wash  up  to  Terre  Haute 
to  see  Robert  J.  go  against  the  world's 
record.  He  was  turned  loose  with  Billy  Fitz- 
gerald, Ed  Geers'  Tennessee  cook,  and  I  saw  no 
more  of  the  old  man  till  he  came  in  Saturday  night 
in  a  semi-comatose  condition  and  proceeded  to  tell 
us  how  Robert  J.  broke  the  record  : 

"  Marse  Ed  cum  out  on  de  track  wid  dat  ornery- 
lookin'  little  pacer.  Yer  wouldn't  gib  fifty  dollars 
er  dat  hoss,  boss,  ef  you'd  er  seed  Mm  in  de  stall, 
he's  dat  no-'count-lookin'  an'  sprung-kneed  an' 
cat-hammed.  But  on  de  track  you'd  gib  fifty 
t'ousan'  fer  de  shake  ob  hees  tail  an'  t'ank  Gord 
fer  de  prib'lege  ob  seein'  Mm  shake  it.  I've  heurd 
ob  de  transfo'mashun  ob  de  prophet,  but  he  ain't 
in  it  wid  Robert  J.  Marse  Ed  sot  quiet  lak  an' 
onconsarned,  but  de  white  folks  clap  dair  han's 
an'  holler  w'en  he  jog  by.  Marse  Ed  nod  hees 
haid,  same  es  ter  say,  '  Much  'bleeged  ter  yer 
all,  but  dis  yer  am  my  busy  day,'  an'  he  jog  on 
'round.  Torectly,  de  big  white  man  dat  sot  in 


from  Tennessee 

de  roun'  box  an'  wave  de  red  flag  at  de  bosses 
an'  talk  sassy  to  de  drivers  ef  dey  don't  score 
down  right,  he  got  up  an'  say,  '  Stop  er  moment, 
Mistah  Geers,'  an'  Marse  Ed  he  stop.  Den  de 
boss  man  turn  'roun'  to  de  big  stan'  whar  all  de 
white  folks  sot,  an'  he  say  :  '  Ladies  an'  gen'el- 
mans,  Robert  J.,  de  great  pacer  frum  Tennessee, 
driven  by  de  onliest  Edward  Geers,  will  now  go 
ergin  de  wurl'  record  ob  two,  two  an'  er  half.  I 
beg  yer  ter  keep  quiet  twell  de  record  am 
busted." 

"  Come  !  come  !  You  know  he  didn't  say 
Tennessee  horse.  Robert  J.  was  -bred  in  Penn- 
sylvania," I  interrupted. 

"Boss,  I'm  tellin'  yer  whut  I  heurd  myse'f. 
Ef  yo'  wants  ter  make  er  pome  outen  et,  in  cou'se 
yo'  kin  'range  de  fac's  ter  suit  youse'f.  I  wuz 
dar  an'  heurd  'im  say  et." 

"Well,  go  on." 

"  De  people  all  clap  dair  han's,  an'  hoorayed 
ergin,  an'  Marse  Ed  jogged  on  back  up  de  stretch, 
lookin'  lak  he  jes'  gwine  ter  mill  fer  er  bushel  er 
meal  an'  'lowed  ter  git  back  'long  tow'ds  sun- 
down. But  fus'  t'ing  I  knowed  I  heurd  er  kinder 
patter-patter,  patter-patter,  patter-patter,  an'  den 
er  kinder  bipperty-bip,  bipperty-bip,  bipperty-bip, 
an'  I  look  up  an'  heah  cum  dat  little  ole  pacer, 
jes'  er  flyin',  wid  er  runnin'  hoss  in  er  sulky  by 
he  side,  an'  er  doin'  all  he  c'ud  ter  keep  up.  I 
grab  er  white  man  by  me  an'  say: 
10  I45 


Songs  and  Stories 

"  '  Mistah,  don't  dat  man  cum  widhees  grist  in  er 

hurry  ?'   But  de  man  punch  ernudder  man  standin' 
by  'im,  an'  say  : 

"  '  Yen  did  dis  coon  coom  outen  de  'sylum  ?' 
"  But  I  wuz  lookin'  at  dat  Robert  J.  an'  de 
w-a-y  he  did  fly  !  Down  de  track  he  went, 
turnin'  de  corner  lak  er  skeered  cat  goin'  'roun' 
de  kitchen  chimbly  wid  de  yard  dog  arter  'im. 
But  Marse  Ed  nebber  move  er  muscle  ner  bat  er 
eye.  He  jes'  sot  dar  silen'  es  death  in  er  country 
chu'ch  yard,  an'  still  es  de  bronze  angel  on  er 
deacon's  tomb.  He  look  lak  de  speerit  ob  '76  on 
wheels  an'  'termined  es  er  ole  maid  when  she 
make  up  her  min'  ter  marry  de  Mefoclis'  preacher 
wid  ten  mudcierless  chilluns.  An'  fo'  goodness, 
Boss,  I  cudden'  see  Robert  J.  'tall  !  All  I  seed 
wuz  'is  shadder  on  de  whitewashed  fence  be- 
yond, an'  dat  scudded  erlong  lak  er  March  cloud 
flyin'  ercrost  de  sun's  face.  At  de  fus'  quarter 
I  heurd  sumpin'  sorter  shettin'  wid  er  snap, 
bang,  an'  I  looked  up  in  some  pigeon-holes  in 
de  timer's  stan',  an'  dar  wuz  hung  out  30^, 
an'  eb'rybody  wuz  hollerin'  an' — an'  Robert  J. 
still  er  flyin'  ! 

"  '  Great  scotts  !  how  he  climbs  dat  hill,'  sed 
er  man  by  me.  Deonliest  hill  I  seed  wuz  er  hill 
erbout  fo'  mile  erway,  on  de  yudcler  side  de 
Warbash  ribber,  an'  I  look  ober  dar  'spectin'  ter 
see  Robert  J.  gwine  up  dar,  sulky  an'  all,  fer  I 
could  er  b'lieved  ennything  'bout  'im  now  arter 
146 


from  Tennessee  - 

seein'  'im  go  dat  fus'  quartah,  but  I  didn't  see  no 
Robert  J.  ober  dar,  an'  I  say  ter  de  man  : 

"  '  Mistah,  what  hill  Jat  you  talkin'  'bout  ?'  an' 
he  stare  at  me  mad-lak,  an'  say  : 

"  '  Ef  yer  don't  stop  trompin'  on  my  toes  an' 
quit  breathin'  yo'  bref  in  my  face,  I'll  make  er 
dead  nigger  outen  yer  !' 

"  I  seed  dat  man  wuzn't  social  'tall,  an'  I  let 
'im  erlone.  But  1  heurd  ernudder  snap  bang  in 
de  pigeon-holes,  an'  I  look  ergin  an'  dar  \vuz 
hung  out  1:00^-4,  an'  de  folks  all  stan'in'  on  dair 
haids  an'  hollerin' — an' Robert  J.  still  erflyin'  ! 

"  Roun'  de  third  quartan  he  cum,  wid  de  run- 
ner an'  'im  nose  an'  nose,  lak  er  team,  an'  yer 
couldn'  tell  which  wuz  which  'cept  de  runner's 
haid  kep'  bobbin'  up  an'  down  an'  'is  driver  er 
\vhippin'  an'  er  slashin'  while  Robert  J.'s  nose 
nebber  moved  up  ner  down  er  inch,  an'  Marse 
Ed  settin'  dar  lak  er  statoo  uv  er  Greek  god  on 
er  charyut.  Snap  !  bang  !  1:30^  dey  hung  out, 
an'  den  sech  er  shout  esdey  sent  up — an'  Robert 
J.  still  erflyin'  ! 

"  Dey  didn'  wanter  stop  hollerin',  an  de  boss 
man  got  up  an'  beg  'em  an'  b^g  'em  an'  wave 
hees  han's,  an'  shouted  fer  quiet,  an'  de  folks  in 
de  fus'  row  dey  all  stan'  up  an'  look  back  at  dem 
behin'  an'  say  sh-h-h  !  sh-h-h-h  !  sh-h-h-h-h  !  an' 
de  gran'  stan'  stop  so  still  yo'  could'er  heurd  er 
pin  drap  in  de  middle  ob  de  naixt  century — an' 
Robert  J.  still  erflyin'  ! 


Songs  and  Stories 

"  He  turn  de  cohner.  De  angels  played  on  er 
harp  ob  er  thousan'  strings  in  my  years,  an'  I 
thought  I  wuz  in  ernudder  wurl'  !  I  fohgot  whar 
I  wuz.  'Feared  lak  'twuz  me  in  de  sulky,  an'  I 
grab  er  pair  er  spike  coat-tails  b'longin'  ter  er 
dude  in  front  ob  me,  fer  reins,  an'  wid  bofe  eyes 
on  dat  flyin'  hoss  I  commenced  ter  cluck  myse'f. 
De  win'  roared  in  my  years  es  I  flew  erlong  ;  de 
fence  'roun'  de  track  look  lak  er  whitewashed 
string  hung  in  de  air,  an'  de  track  itse'f  'peared  to 
be  er  toboggan  slide  down  de  highes'  peak  ob  de 
Alps,  an'  de  sulky  wuz  gwine  down  et,  pulled  by 
flyin'  eagles  an'  mounting  deers  !  'Twas  sweet- 
er'n  de  angels  in  dair  glory  !  Bipperty-bip  !  bip- 
perty-bip  !  bipperty-bip  !  cum  dat  yer  runner  ! 
Click-klock  !  click-klock  !  click-klock  cum  dat 
sweet  'ittle  pacer.  Snap,  bang  !  2:01  }4  wentde 
timer's  box,  an'  I  turn  two  summersets,  shouted 
'glory  halleluyer  !'  busted  inter  ten  thousan' 
pieces,  an'  went  home  ter  glory  ! 

"  When  I  cum  to  I  wuz  huggin'  er  trottin'-bred 
nigger  frum  Indiana,  an'  singin'  : 

Hark  frum  de  tomb,  yer  trottin'  coon — 

We've  sot  yer  er  record  yer  won't  bust  soon  !" 


148 


from  Tennessee 


HOW  OLD  WASH  SOLD  THE  FILLY. 

OLD  WASH  paced  into  my  study  the  other 
day  the  most  woe-begone  darkey  in  Ten- 
nessee. There  was  a  halt  in  his  walk,  a  creak 
in  his  step  and  a  crick  in  his  neck. 

"  Boss,"  he  said,  as  I  motioned  him  to  sit  down 
on  the  black  mohair  stool  in  the  corner  till  I  fin- 
ished writing,  "  de  ole  man  bin  mighty  mizrified 
fur  er  week  er  mo'.  Hes  yo'  got  enything 
layin'  'roun'  loose  dat  would  he'p  'im  ter  git  er 
move  on  hissef  ?  Enny  kind  er— 

The  rest  of  the  sentence  was  cut  off  by  yelps 
and  snarls,  mingled  with  many  imprecations,  and 
rapid  rising  from  the  stool  on  the  part  of  him  who 
a  few  minutes  before  could  scarcely  walk.  I  had 
forgotten  to  tell  the  old  man  the  stool  was  already 
occupied  by  my  ill-natured  black-and-tan  terrier, 
who  thought  she  had  a  pre-empted  right  to  that 
particular  piece  of  furniture. 

"I'm  afraid  that's  all  I've  got  lying  around 
loose  to-day,  Wash,"  I  said,  as  the  old  man  stood 
rubbing  the  seat  of  his  trousers  and  eyeing  with 
149 


Songs  and  Stories 

withering  contempt  the  spluttering  and  sneezing 
dog  who  was  appealing  to  me  for  sympathy. 
"What  can  I  do  for  you?"  I  asked,  as  I  laid 
aside  my  work  at  the  chance  of  hearing  some  of 
his  drollery. 

For  answer  the  old  man  slowly  ran  his  hand 
into  the  tail  pocket  of  his  threadbare  Prince  Al- 
bert and  drew  forth  a  crumpled  paper. 

"Does  yo'  recognize  dis?"  he  said,  as  he 
drew  out  a  paper. 

"  Oh,  yes, "  I  said  ;  "  that's  the  horse  paper  of 
December,  1892." 

"  Den  jes'  read  at  dis  place,"  he  said,  pointing 
at  a  paragraph  with  the  air  of  a  lawyer  who  is 
about  to  entice  a  witness  into  a  trap  he  had  set 
for  him.  I  read  it  aloud.  It  was  the  closing  par- 
agraph of  my  editorial  on  the  situation  for  1892  : 

"  '  On  the  whole,  though  the  season  of  1892  has 
not  been  as  promising  as  it  should  have  been, 
owing  to  several  bad  failures,  there  is  now  no 
doubt  we  have  passed  through  the  worst  of  the 
hard  times  and  may  confidently  expect  to  see 
better  times  for  next  year.  A  good  time  to  stay 
in  a  business  is  when  others  are  going  out.' 

"Well,  what  about  it?"  I  asked. 

"  O,  nuffin',"  said  the  old  man,  a  little  iron- 
ically, 1  thought.  "  Nuffin'  fall,  'cept  dat  little 
verse  ob  poetry  jes'  ruined  me,  dat's  all  !" 

"Why,  how's  that?"  I  asked  in  astonish- 
ment. 

150 


from  Tennessee 

"Wai,  sah,"  said  the  old  man,  "  hits  jes'  dis 
way  :  Does  yo'  kno'  my  Red  Pilot  filly  ?  Ten 
pacin'  crosses  widout  er  single  break  !  Fust  dam 

by-" 

"Nevermind,"  I  cried — for  I  hated  to  hear 
him  start  on  an  endless  pedigree — "what  about 
her  ?  I  know  all  about  her  ;  go  on." 

The  old  man   looked  sorrowfully  into  the  fire. 

"  She'd  er  bin  sumbuddy  else's  'cept  fur  dat 
profercy.  She'd  er  bin  sumbuddy  else's  darlin' 
but  fur  de  brilliant  prophet  dat  knowed  more  den 
de  Almighty  'bout  whut  de  naixt  yeah  wuz 
gwinter  bring  forth  !  But  fur  readin'  dat  an' 
bleevin'  it,"  he  said,  "I'd  er  sold  dat  filly  wid 
her  ten  pacin'  crosses  fur  three  hundred  dollars — 
thirty  dollars  er  cross  !  Grate  heaben,  whut  er 
fool  I  wuz  !  1  hed  dat  offered  fur  her,  but  whut 
did  I  do  when  I  read  dat  ?  Sot  back  an'  axed 
five  hundred  dollars  fur  her  !  Sold  my  hog  meat 
ter  buy  her  cohn  an'  oats  an' wait  fur  de  millen- 
nium ob  ateen-ninety-three  ter  cum  dat  de  hoss- 
prophet  sed  wuz  cumin'  !" 

"  And  did  it  come  ?"  I  asked.  The  old  man 
looked  at  me  almost  pitifully.  Instead  of  reply- 
ing he  drew  out  another  paper.  This  was  dated 
December,  1893,  and  the  paragraph  he  had 
singled  out  was  also  mine  : 

"  Taken  as  a  whole  this  has  been  the  worst  year 
for  the  sale  of  harness  horses  that  has  been 
known  for  a  long  time.  It  seems  the  boom  has 


Songs  and  Stories 

collapsed,  but  it  is  also  plain  that  every  fictitious 
element  has  been  eliminated  and  next  year  will 
see  the  business  once  more  on  a  solid  foundation. 
Don't  sell  your  pacers  now — you  will  be  sorry." 

"  An'  1  wuz  sorry,  sah  ;  sorry  I  didn't  sell,  too," 
he  said.  "  O,  ef  er  certain  boss  prophet  I  kno'," 
he  said,  looking  at  me  innocently,  "  hed  libbed  in 
de  time  ob  Noah,  dey  wouldn't  er  hed  no  use  fur 
Jeremiah,  Izear  an'  de  whale  datswallered  Joner. 
Relyin'  on  dat  blessed  promis,"  he  said,  "I 
most  'pintedly  'fused  one  hundred  an'  fifty  dol- 
lars fur  dat  filly,  sot  back  on  my  dignerty,  an' 
waited  fur  de  star  ter  rise  in  de  east.  An'  did  it 
cum  ter  pass  ?  No,  sah,  'sted  ob  dat  de  filly 
went  ter  grass — an'  when  dat  gib  out  she  cum 
mighty  nigh  goin'  ter  de  bone  yard.  But  long 
t'wards  de  winter  ob  dat  rocky  yeah,  er  feller 
cum  erlong  an'  sed  he'd  gib  me  fifty  dollars  fur 
her  ruther  den  see  her  starve.  So  de  naixt  day 
I  put  de  halter  on  'er  an'  focht  'er  in  ter  turn  'er 
ober  ter  de  buyer.  But  when  I  got  ter  town  I 
foun'  my  hoss  paper  in  de  postoffis'  an'  de  wurds 
ob  de  prophet  wuz  in  it  clear  es  er  crystal  bell. 
Heah  it  am,"  he  said,  as  he  thrust  another  paper 
at  me.  I  blushed  slightly  as  I  read  : 

"  '  The  season  of  1894  has  gone,  and  though  it 
has  been  full  of  trials  and  tribulations,  low  prices, 
hard  times,  financial  panics,  and  bursted  banks, 
the  recent  sale  of  horses  in  Ohio,  New  York  and 
other  states  confirms  the  now  almost  universal 
152 


from  Tennessee 

belief  that  the  year  1895  will  find  the  horse  busi- 
ness once  more  on  hand  and  doing  better  than 
ever.  This  is  positively  affirmed  by  the  fact  that 
many  mushroom  breeders  have  sold  out  and  quit. 
The  supply  is  necessarily  nearly  exhausted,  es- 
pecially for  pacers,  and  he  who  can  hold  till  1895 
will  reap  a  fortune." 

"Dat  settled  it  wid  me,"  said  the  old  man. 
"I  tuck  de  filly  back  home,  stopped  de  chillun  frum 
skule,  sold  de  'possum  dog,  lied  erbout  my  taxes, 
shetoff  de  missionery  fund  fer  de  church,  closed 
down  on  de  preacher,  an'  spent  de  money  in 
forty-cent  oats  an'  fifty-cent  cohn  to  stuff  hit 
erway  in  dat  filly  fur  de  cummin'  ob  de  angel  ! 
But  he  passed  my  house  by.  Yo'  kno'  what  dis 
yeah  has  bin,"  said  he.  "  Ef  de  yudder  yeans 
hes  bin  rocky,  dis  yeah  hes  been  ashy.  Ef  de 
yudder  yeahs  hes  been  bottomless,  dis  one  hes 
been  volcanic — jes'  seem  to  hev  got  down  es  low 
es  it  cud  an'  den  throwed  up  whut  it  cudn't 
reach  !  Dey  say  us  in  de  hoss  bizness  am  suf- 
ferin'  fur  de  sins  ob  our  daddies  ;  ef  dis  am  so,  de 
origernal  daddy  ob  de  hoss  bizness  must  er  slid 
outer  Sodam  an'  Termorrow  jes'  befo'de  yearth- 
quake  !  Dey  say  we  must  suffer  to  de  third  an' 
de  fourth  generashun,  but  hit  'pears  to  me  de  biz- 
ness dun  passed  through  forty  crosses  ob  tribe- 
lashun  already  ! 

"  By  March  she  hed  et  meoutob  ebrything  but 
er  little  Jersey  bull  an'  er  hatrack,  an'  I  cudn't 


Songs  and  Stories 

git  ten  dollers  fur  dat  filly  wid  her  ten  pacin' 
crosses  !  By  June  I  hed  offered  her  ter  er  farmer 
ef  he'd  keep  us  in  buttermilk  twell  de  black- 
berries cum.  'No,  siree,' he  say,  'I'm  feedin' 
my  buttermilk  to  hogs,  an'  I  kno'  I  kin  sell  dem  !' 
When  my  darter  got  married,  I  tried  to  gib  de 
filly  to  'er  fur  er  bridle  present ;  but  she  'lowed  ef 
she  hed  to  hev  ennything  in  de  pacin'  line  fur 
er  bridle  gift  she'd  take  er  rockin'  cheer  an'  er 
cradle  ;  an'  at  last  when  I  dun  clean  gib  up,  heah 
cum  de  cunstable  to  levy  on  sumpin'  fur  de  oats 
I  bought  an'  cudn't  pay  fur  at  de  grocers,  an'  I 
say  to  myself,  '  Thang  goodness,  she'll  go  now, 
sho'  !'  but  she  didn't,"  said  the  old  man  as  he 
wiped  a  tear  ;  "  he  found  out  I  had  de  little  Jersey 
bull  dat  weighed  two  hundred  poun's,  wurf  two 
cents  er  poun',left,  an'  by  de  gable  ob  de  temple 
ef  he  didn't  take  dat  little  bull  an'  lef  me  dat 
pacin'  filly  in  de  stall  !" 

Here  the  old  man's  tears  were  running  freely 
as  he  brought  down  his  fist  and  exclaimed  : 
"  Dat's  my  luck— dat's  Ole  Wash's  luck  all 
ober  !  Why,  boss,  ef  I'd  buy  er  carload  ob  ice 
in  Angus'  an'  ship  it  to  Hades  dey'd  cum  er  big 
freeze  down  dar  de  night  befo'  it  got  dar,  an'  dey 
wouldn't  be  no  demand  fur  it  de  naixt  day  !  O, 
I  b'leeves  in  hoss-prophets,"  he  said,  ironically, 
'an'  ain't  I  jes'  waitin'  fur  de  next  paper  to  tell 
me  to  hold  on  to  dat  filly  endurin'  a'teen-ninety- 
next-century  !  I'll  b'leeve — 


from  Tennessee 

But  the  old  man  never  got  any  farther ;  he  was 
interrupted  by  a  great  commotion  in  the  back 
yard.  He  went  out  of  the  door  like  a  two-year- 
old,  but  soon  came  prancing  back  like  Strathberry 
in  hobbles. 

"Thank  goodness!"  he  said,  "I've  sold  'er  ! 
I've  sold'er  !  !" 

"  To  whom  ?"  I  asked,  surprised  now,  myself. 

"To  de  Louisville  an'  Nashville  railroad,"  he 
said — "  ten  pacin'  crosses  at  fifty  dollars  a  cross  ! 
Yo'  see,  boss,"  he  said,  breathlessly,  "  de  ole 
'oman  wuz  ridin'  her  to  mill  jes'  now,  an'  she  got 
to  jawin'  wid  ernudder  'oman  jes'  er  little  too 
long  to  miss  er  frate  train  dat  cum  erlong,  an'  dat 
orter  stopped  'twell  she  got  through  talkin',  an' 
hit  killed  de  filly  an'  broke  de  old  'oman's  jaw, 
an'  de  doctah  say  she  can't  talk  no  mo'  twell  next 
Christmas  !  Thang  Gawd  fur  twosech  blessins! 
— de  rightus  am  nurver  fursaken  !"  And  he 
rushed  out  to  find  a  lawyer,  but  not  until  he  had 
drawn  off  the  following  quaint  account  which  he 
asked  me  to  send  to  the  company  : 

L.  &  N.  R.  R Dr. 

To  Ole  Wash. 
Nov.  i,  1895. 

To  breakin'  Dinah's  jaw $000.05 

To  sale  of  ten  pacin'  crosses  at  $50  a  cross. .$500.00 

$500.05 
155 


Songs  and  Stories 

N.  B. — Gentlemen  : 

Pay  fur  de  crosses  an'  I'll  knock  off  fur  de 
jaw.  OLE  WASH. 

And  later,  when  he  pocketed  his  money,  he 
chuckled  and  remarked  to  me  :  "I  tell  yo',  boss, 
dey  ain't  nuffin  lak  crossin'  our  fillies  on  a  loco- 
motive to  improve  de  breed  in  dis  state." 

It  took  a  lawsuit,  but — he  sold  her ! 


156 


from  Tennessee 


HOW  OLD  WASH  CAPTURED  A  GUN. 

"  JENNIE,  the  famous  dun  mule  of  Wilson 
J  county,  Kansas,  is  dead.  Jennie  was  so  old 
that  men  had  long  since  quit  guessing  on  her  age. 
She  was  gray  over  the  eyes  when  Jim  Johnson 
drove  her  into  Wilson  county,  and  that  occurred 
in  1871.  She  bore  on  her  hip  the  United  States 
army  brand,  and  popular  tradition  had  it  that  she 
participated  in  the  Mexican  war." 

When  old  Wash  saw  the  above  in  a  newspaper, 
he  was  very  much  exercised  and  wanted  to  go 
over  to  Kansas  to  see  about  it. 

"Why,  suh,"  he  said,  "  dat's  de  same  dun 
mule  I  wuz  plowin'  on  a  rocky  hillside  up  at 
Double  Branches  in  de  fall  of  a'teen  sixty-two, 
when  Wilson's  raiders  cum  through  Tennessee 
an'  tuk  me  an'  dat  mule  bofe  erlong  an'  made 
sojers  outen  us.  Hit's  jes'  lak  de  paper  sed — I 
knowed  ebry  ha'r  on  her,  an'  she  wuz  trottin' 
bred  frum  her  head-end  to  her  lightnin'  end,  bein' 
by  a  Spanish  jack  outen  a  mair  by  a  son  ob  im- 
ported Messenger.  She  wuz  drapped  de  fall 


Songs  and  Stories 

Jeems  K.  Poke  vvuz  'lected  preserdent,  an'  she 
went  thru  de  Mexerkin  war,  jes'  lak  de  paper  say. 
Ef  dey'll  only  dig  her  up  an'  see  ef  she's  got  a 
scar  on  her  lef  bin'  heel  dey  won't  be  no  doubt  ob 
it  at  all.  She  got  dat  scar  by  kicken'  a  solid  shot 
1  frum  a  forty-pounder,  dat  de  Mexerkins  had  fired 
at  our  men,  back  into  de  Mexekin  line,  an'  killin' 
er  whole  rigerment  ob  Mexekins  jes'  in  de  act  ob 
sayin'  deir  ebenin'  prayer  !  Fur  de  Lord  sake, 
boss,  hit's  de  truth  !  I  wudn't  lie  'bout  er  mule  ! 
An'  I  jes'  lak  ter  see  her  onct  mo'— fur  she  wuz 
de  cause  ob  my  bein'  so  independent  terday." 

"  How  was  that  ?"  I  asked.  "  I  thought  you 
said  Wilson's  raiders  got  you  both." 

"  So  dey  did,  so  dey  did,"  he  said,  "an'dat's 
depint  I'm  arter.  Yo'  see,  dey  tuck  us  bofe  an' 
made  sojers  outen  us.  Dey  put  de  dun  mule  to 
pullin'  cannons  an'  put  me  to  diggin'  ditches, 
wid  er  whole  rigerment  ob  yudder  niggers,  an' 
throwin'  up  breastworks  an'  tunnelin'  hills  'round 
Nashville.  I  swear  to  yo',  sub,  ef  ennybody 
thinks  sojernin'  am  play,  jes'  let  'em  jine  de  army 
de  naixt  scrap  Unk  Sam  gits  into.  Befo'  ninety 
days  am  out  dey'll  yearn  fer  white-winged  peace 
wusser  den  de  animules  shet  up  in  de  ark  yearned 
fur  de  flutter  ob  de  dove's  wing  ! 

"  But  wusser  times  wuz  comin'  !     An'  when 
Hood's  army  cum  in  de  Yankees  gin  us  guns  an' 
tole  us  we  had  ter  fight  or  be  cotch  an'  hung  ter 
telegraf  postes  !     Says  I  to  de  offercer  : 
158 


from  Tennessee 

"'Good  Lord,  Marse  Yankee,  I  don't  wanter 
shoot  at  no  white  folks  !  'Spose  I  happen  to  hit 
Ole  Marster,  or  one  of  Mister  Forrest's  men, 
\vhut  dem  white  folks  g\vi'  do  ter  dis  nigger  ef 
dey  ketch  'im  ?  Nigger  don't  kno'  nuffin'  'bout 
huntin'  ennything  but  possums — lemme  do  de 
diggin'.  Sez  I,  'I'd  ruther  dig  er  hole  ter  Chiny 
fur  yo'  dan  ter  face  dem  cannons  ob  Mister  For- 
rest's men  wid  Marse  John  Morton  er  pullin'  ob 
de  trigger  !' 

"  But  dat  jes'  made  de  offercer  mad  wid  me, 
an'  he  tole  me  ef  we  didn't  go  an'  shoot  dey'd 
hang  us  fur  disserters.  I  tell  yo'  boss,  de  nigger 
whut  wuz  captured  an'  pressed  inter  dat  war  wuz 
sho'  in  er  tight  place.  Ef  he  didn't  fight  de 
Yankees  hung  'im,  an'  ef  he  did  fight  de  Johnnies 
shot  'im  !  Gawd,  I  don't  want  no  mo'  ob  it ! 
Dey  ain't  gwi'  git  me  in  no  war  wid  Spain  ! 

"  Wai,  suh,  dey  saunt  me  out  to  de  frunt  soon 
es  Gineral  Hood  got  posted  on  de  hills  souf  ob 
Nashville,  an'  dey  marched  us  all  out  in  de  line  ter 
take  er  big  gun  on  er  hill.  I  swear  to  yo',  boss, 
ef  yo'  ain't  nurver  been  marched  up  ter  take  er 
big  gun  an'  hit  loaded  an'  pinted  at  yo',  yo'  don't 
kno'  whut  it  am  to  nab  de  mos'  miserbul,  un- 
komplementry  feelin's  in  dis  wurl  chasing  each 
yudder  up  an'  down  yo'  back-bone.  Ebery  step 
1  tuk  it  'peared  lak  my  feet  jes'  stuck  to  de 
yearth,  an'  I  wuz  so  skeered  de  cold  sweat  stood 
in  beads  all  ober  my  gun-barrel  !  Ebry  bone  in 


Songs  and  Stories 

my  body  got  stiff  es  er  stick  'cept  my  backbone, 
an'  dat  jes'  seem  ter  wanter  curl  up  an'  lay  down 
on  de  sunny  side  ob  sumpin'  an'  go  to  sleep. 

"  When  we  fus'  started  we  wuz  two  miles  frum 
dat  gun,  an'  hit  didn't  seem  to  be  much  bigger'n 
a  locus'  tree,  an'  de  hole  in  it  'bout  big  ernuff  fur 
er  rabbit  ter  run  in.  But  befo'  we  marched  fifty 
yards,  boss,  dat  gun  wuz  es  big  es  de  bigges' 
poplar  in  de  woods,  wid  er  hole  in  it  big  ernuff  fur 
er  she  ba'r  an'  her  cubs  ter  crawl  in,  an'  hit  wuz 
p'inted  straight  at  my  head — jes'  picked  me  out 
an'  nobody  else  !  I  stood  it  fer  er  leetle  while, 
an'  when  de  offercers  wan't  lookin'  I  drapped  out 
ob  de  ranks  an'  fell  in  ergin  'way  down  to  de  lef, 
an'  t'inks  1  :  '  Yo'  ain't  p'intin'  at  me  now,  sho'  !' 
but,  bless  yo'  soul,  when  I  look  up  ergin  dar  it  wuz 
p'intin'  at  me  an'  nobody  else  !  I  nurver  heurd 
ob  er  gun  singlin'  out  one  nigger  in  er  thousan' 
befo',  but  dat's  whut  dat  gun  wuz  doin'  ! 

"  We  marched  on  er  leetle  furder,  till  I  seed  de 
ball  startin'  outen  it.  I  seed  de  fiah  flash  an'  de 
ball  start  out  jes'  es  plain  es  I  see  de  sun  in  heaben 
dis  minnit  !  At  fust  it  wan't  bigger  den  de  moon, 
but  befo'  it  got  half-way  cross  dat  valley  it  wuz 
big  es  de  sun,  an'  es  it  cum  rollin'  on  straight  fur 
me,fo'  de  Lord,  boss,  it  got  bigger  an'  bigger,  twell 
it  looked  lak  ernudder  wurl  rollin'  on,  black  es 
de  pit  ob  doom,  an'  spitten'  out  fiah  an'  brim- 
stone, an'  smoke  an'  saltpeter,  an'  Gord-knows- 
whut,  an'  rollin',  an'  er-r-o-l-l-lin',  an'  er-r-o-1- 
160 


from  Tennessee 

l-i-n'  es  straight  fur  me  es  ef  I  wuz  de  onlies' 
nigger  in  de  whole  rigerment !  Hits  de  truf  ef  I  eber 
tole  hit  ! 

"  Jes'  den  de  offercer  he  holler  out,  'Charge  !' 
an'  I  charged  sho'  miff— dat's  whut  I'd  bin 
wantin'  ter  doebersence  I  started.  I  charged  fur 
er  rock  fence  lak  er  groun'  squir'l.  But  when  I 
peeped  ober  dat  fence  der  cum  dat  ball  straight 
fur  me  ergin,  er  rollin'  an'  er  r-o-l-l-lin'  an'  er 
r-o-l-l-i-n  !  I  got  up  frum  dar  an'  lit  out  roun' 
Marse  John  Overton's  brick  smoke-house,  an' 
den  I  peeped  frum  roun'  de  cornderob  dat  house, 
an'  I  hope  I  may  go  in  de  trottin'  hoss  bizness 
jes'  on  de  ebe  ob  de  naixt  Clevelan'  misrepre- 
sentashum,  an'  see  my  thousan'  dollar  colts  go 
beggin'  fur  coon  skins,  ef  dat  ball  wasn't  headed 
straight  fur  dat  smoke-house  jes'  lak  hit  knew  I 
wuz  dar — er  rollin',  an'  er  r-o-I-lin',  an'  er  r-o-l- 
l-i-n'  !  '  Cord,'  sez  I,  '  I  can't  stay  heah  !'  An' 
I  lit  out  an'  tacked  ercross  er  hundred-acre  wheat 
fiel',  runnin'  fust  dis  way  an'  den  dat,  an'  'roun' 
an'  roun'  er  big  hill,  but  dat  ball  jes'  tuck  ercross 
de  fiel',  too,  an'  tacked  when  I  tacked,  an' turned 
cornders  when  I  turned  cornders,  an'  went  'roun' 
an'  'roun'  dat  hill,  er  rollin'  an'  er  r-o-l-lin' 
straight  fur  me  an'  nobody  else,  an'  I'd  bin  er 
dead  nigger  dis  day  ef  I  hadn't  fell  in  er  twenty- 
foot  sink  hole  jes'  es  de  ball  tuck  off  my  cap  an' 
rolled  on,  killen'  ten  thousan'  men  fo'  miles  on 
de  yudder  side  ob  de  ribber,  an'  bored  dat  tunnel 
161 


Songs  and  Stories 

thru'  de  hill  dis  side  ob  Nashville  whar  de  Ellen  N 
railroad  now  run  dey  trains  thru'  ebery  day  ! — 
er  rollin'  an'  er  r-o-l-l-lin  !  Gord,  suh,  it  am  de 
truf — I  wudn't  tell  er  lie  fur  sech  er  thing  es  er 
cannon  ball,  an'  dar's  de  tunnel  dar,  yo'  kin  go 
thru'  ennydayan'  see  fur  yo'sef,"  and  he  bit  off 
a  piece  of  tobacco  and  shook  his  head  long  and 
earnestly. 

"A  very  narrow  escape,"  I  remarked,  "but 
that  does  not  explain  how  that  old  dun  mule  was 
the  cause  of  your  present  prosperity." 

"  I'm  cummin'  to  dat  now,"  he  said  as  he  put 
his  tobacco  back  into  his  hat,  his  red  handkerchief 
on  his  tobacco,  and  the  whole  on  his  head. 
"When  I  fell  in  dat  sink  hole  er  runnin'  frum 
dat  ball,  I  broke  three  ribs,  an'  Gord  bless  yo' 
soul,  honey,  Uncle  Sam  ain't  gwi'  see  his  sojers 
suffer  in  dey  ole  aige  fur  hunurbul  wounds  got  in 
battle,  an'  ef  I  ain't  drawin'  ebry  quarter,  three 
dollars  an'  sixty-two  cents  fur  each  one  ob  dem 
ribs  den  my  name  ain't  Shadrack  Ebenezer  Zadoc 
Washington  Grundy,  an'  dat's  de  truf !" 


162 


from  Tennessee 


BR'ER   WASHINGTON'S  ARRAIGNMENT. 

"T  AIN'T  nurver  tole  yo'  'bout  de  time  dey  had 
1  me  up  befo'  de  jedge  at  Nashville  fur  makin', 
without  license,  er  leetle  ob  dat  licker  dat  makes 
kings  ob  us  all,  is  I  ?"  asked  old  Wash  the 
other  day.  "I  don't  kno'  how  in  de  wurl  dey 
kotch  me,"  continued  the  old  darkey,  "fur  I'd 
bin  rnakin'  it  eber  sense  de  war  up  in  der  holler  ob 
de  Indian  Camp  Springs,  whar  de  Indians  made 
it  long,  long  ergo,  befo'  enny  ob  us  wuz  bohn— 
jes'  fo'  or  five  galuns  to  keep  de  old  man's  cow- 
ketcher  gwine,"  he  continued,  "an'  I  don't  see 
how  in  de  wurl  dese  heah  river-new  offercers 
foun'  it  out.  But  dey  did,  an'  fur  one  time  de  ole 
man  wuz  sho'  in  a  tight  place. 

"  Yo'  see,"  he  continued,  "it  ain't  ebrybody 
kno'  how  ter  make  good  whisky.  I  don't  mean 
dis  heah  stuff  dese  po'  white  trash  makes  up  in 
de  mountings  so  strong  an'  vile  dat  when  yo'  on- 
cork  a  bottle  ob  it  on  dis  yearth  it  make  de  debbil 
sneeze  in  de  reguns  below.  But  I'mtalkin'  'bout 
sho'  nuff  whisky — whisky  daf  sho'  nuff  white 
163 


Songs  and  Stories 

folks  drink — so  pyore  an'  ripe  dat  all  yo'  hafter 
do  is  ter  oncork  de  stopper  on  dis  yearth  an' 
watch  de  roses  bloom  in  paradise. 

"  Yo'  must  make  it  in  October,"  he  said, 
knowingly,  "  er  'bout  de  time  de  fall  poet  begins 
ter  write  his  poem  on  de  golden  rod,  when  de 
leabs  begin  ter  turn  purple  an'  golden,  an'  de  air 
am  crisp  an'  sparklin',  an'  de  spring  water  am 
full  ob  fallin'  nuts  an'  de  'romer  ob  de  sweet 
night  dews.  Yo'  mils'  kotch  yore  water  frum 
outen  er  col'  spring  dat  flows  frum  under  sum 
sweet  paw-paw  tree,  runnin'  ober  er  bed-rock  ob 
blue  limestone,  in  which  er  few  acuns  dun  drapt 
ter  gib  it  de  strenf  ob  de  oak  tree.  Den,  sum 
night  when  de  moon  am  full  an'  de  sent  ob  de 
wild  haws  fill  all  de  air,  jes'  go  out — butdar  now," 
he  said,  laughingly,  "  whut's  all  dat  gotter  do 
wid  dis  story  ?  Nemmine,  jes'  yo'  cum  'roun' 
to  my  cabin  sum  day,  child,  an'  lemme  let  yo' 
taste  it  onct.  It's  den  yo'll  see  de  gates  ob  glory 
open  fur  er  minnit  er  two,  an'  de  ladder  ob  kon- 
solashun  run  up  an'  down  'tvvixt  de  heaben  an' 
de  yearth.  O,  it's  den  yo'll  wish  yore  neck  wuz 
er  spiral  pipe,  runnin'  roun'  an'  roun',  so  dat  one 
drink  would  hafter  go  fifty  miles  befo'  it  got  outer 
sight,"  and  the  old  man  laughed  heartily. 

"  But  dey  cotch  me,"  he  continued,  "an'  dey 

tuck  me  to  Nashville,  an'  when  dey  put  me  in  de 

jail  my  folks  all  got  erroun'  me  an'  cried  an'  tole 

me   good-bye,  an'  my  wife  she  tuck   it  pow'ful 

164 


from  Tennessee 

hard  an'  she  wanted  ter  go  an'  git  de  preacher  ter 
cum  an'  pray  fur  me.  Dat's  de  way  wid  sum 
Christuns,"  said  the  old  man,  with  a  tinge  of  sar- 
casm in  his  tone;  "dey  willin'  ernuff  ter  play 
hide-an'-seek  wid  de  debbil  long  es  dey  think  dey 
am  safe,  but  jes'  es  soon  es  dey  gits  cotched  up  • 
wid  den  dey  wanter  go  in  partnership  wid  de 
Lawd  !  Huh  !  Dey  didn't  skeer  me  'tall,  an'  I 
jes'  say  ter  my  wife  :  '  Look  heah,  Dinah,  yo' 
jes'  stop  yore  wailin'  an'  bellowment  an'  go  on 
home,  an'  ef  I  ain't  dar  by  cane-grindin'  time, 
yo'  jes'  go  on  an'  marry  Brer  Peter  Dawson,  de 
preacher,  an'  on  de  night  ob  yore  weddin'  supper, 
yo'  jes'  go  down  ter  de  medder  spring,  dig  fo'  foot 
under  it,  an'  fetch  out  dat  blue  demmerjohn  ob 
bred-in-de-purple  licker  I  berrid  dar  fo'teen  years 
ergo,  an'  yo'  an'  Brer  Peter  jes'  drink  it  ter  my 
health,  fur  ef  yo'  don't,  it's  so  pyore  an'  good 
an'  ripe  it  will  rise  itself  sum  day  !" 

"She  kno'  by  dat  I  warn't  gwi'  stay  dere  in 
dat  jail,"  chuckled  the  old  man  ;  "  I  didn't  make 
dat  whisky  fur  my  wife's  secun'  husban'  ter 
drink.  Huh  !  I  had  no  noshun  ob  stayin'  in  no 
jail  twell  cane-grindin'  time.  Not  fur  makin' 
good  whisky — now  ef  !  made  mean  whisky  dat 
ud  bin  ernudder  thing  an'  I'd  bin  willin'  to  plead 
gilty  an'  say  far 'well. 

"Den  dey  saunt  er  leetle  lawyer  ter  me  an' 
he  tuck  me  off  an'  say  he  bin  'ployed  to  offen' 
rne.      An'  den  he  say  he  gwi'  prove    I  wuz  a 
165 


Songs  and  Stories 

yallerby — 'dough  yo'  sees  yo'sef  I'm  es  black  es 
er  cro' — an'  he  say  he  gwi'  git  out  er  writ  ob 
circum-cumfetchum,  an'  ignis  fat-yo'-us,  an'  abe- 
et-de-corpus  an'  all  dat.  I  tole  'im  I  much  er- 
bleege  ter  him,  but  I  wuz  gwi'  go  dar  an'  tell  de 
truf  an'  talk  to  clat  jedge  myse'f,  an'  wuz  gwi' 
file  er  cross-cut-saw-bill  into  dat  cote,  sho'! 

"  Jes'  fo'  de  trial  cum  off,  I  saunt  down  to  my 
wife  an'  tole  her  ter  dig  up  dat  gallun  I  dun  berrid 
down  dar  in  de  medder  fo'teen  years  befo'  an'  ter 
fill  up  dat  decanter  my  ole  Marster  gib  me  befo' 
he  die,  an'  ter  fotch  it  ter  me. 

"  Yo'  nurver  seed  dat  decanter,  is  yo'  suh? 
O,  I  tell  yo'  my  ole  Marster  wuz  er  high  roller, 
an'  dat  decanter  wus  er  picture  in  er  lookin'  glass. 
It  wuz  es  thick  es  de  roun'  pastern  ob  de  race 
boss,  an'  made  ob  one  solid  piece  ob  cut  glass, 
an'  cyarved  in  cammeos  an' Greek  god  dermites, 
an'  de  stopper  itself  wuz  de  rpid  ob  de  Venus 
hersef  on  er  bust — leastwise  dat  whut  ole  Marster 
sed — an'  he  'lowed  she  wuz  sho'  in  de  proper 
place  ter  be  on  a  bust  !  I  tell  yo'  suh,  when  dat 
whisky  got  in  dat  decanter  it  look'  lak  de  grape 
juice  ob  heaven  cotch  in  er  dimon'  urn  an'  framed 
in  all  de  classic  glory  ob  de  ainshunt  Greeks. 
When  de  sunlight  fall  on  it,  it  look  lak  er  big 
blazin'  ruby  sot  in  de  crown  ob  er  cherubin  ! 

"I  slip  it  under  my  cote  an'  went  in  ter  de 
cote-room.  An'  dar  dey  played  ermean  trick  on 
me,  fur  dey  sot  me  down  in  de  same  pen  wid  er 
1 66 


from  Tennessee 

lot  ob  po'  white  trash  frum  de  mountings  dat  had 
bin  cotch  in  de  act  ob  makin'  wild-cat  whisky  ! 
Cord,  suh,  hit  made  me  mad,  fur  I  wan't  used 
ter  'soshatin'  wid  dat  kind  o'  white  folks  ! 

"  Toreckly  de  jedge  an'  de  jury  cum  in  an'  de 
jedge  sot  down  an'  red  out :  '  Newnighted  States 
ergin  Washington  Grundy.' 

"  '  Heah,  Marster,'  sez  1,  an'  Gord  bless  yore 
soul,  honey,  I  pranced  up  befo'  dat  jedge  inner- 
cent  lookin'  es  de  new-born  colt  when  he  paced 
ober  de  speckled  calf  layin'  in  de  weeds.  Den 
de  jedge  look  ober  his  glasses  sorter  kind  lak— 
Gord  bless  yo',  honey,  he  knows  er  gemman 
when  he  sees  him  ! — an'  he  red  sumpin  ergin  me 
an'  den  he  ax  me  ef  I'm  gilty  or  not  gilty. 

"'Yes,  Marster,'  sez  I,  'I'm  gilty  an'  not 
gilty,  too,  an'  I'd  lak  ter  'splain  to  this  honorbul 
cote  how  it  am.' 

"  De  jedge  he  smile  an'  de  jury  laf — Gord  bless 
yo',  honey,  dey  knows  er  gemman  when  dey 
meet  'im  in  de  rode,  too — an'  de  jedge  he  tells  me 
I  has  de  right  ter  make  enny  explunashuns  I 
wants— dat  dat  wuz  my  privulage,  an'  when  he 
sed  dat,  I  jes'  made  'im  er  low  bow,  wid  my  hat 
under  my  arm,  an'  sez  I  :  '  Thank  yo',  Marster, 
yo'  am  er  gtmman  sho',  an'  er  jedge  lak  de  jedges 
ob  de  Bible.'  An'  I  laid  erside  my  hat,  button 
up  tight  my  ole  dubble-brested  King  Alfrud  cote, 
dat  ole  Marster  gin  me,  whut  he  useter  wear  when 
be  made  big  speeches,  an'  I  sez  : 
167 


Songs  and  Stories 

"  '  Marse  jedge  an'  gemmen  ob  de  jury,  yo' 
sees  befo'  yo'  heah  a  pore  old  nigger,  cotch  in  de 
act  uf  manufactorin',  fur  his  stommick's  sake,  a 
leetle  ob  dat  dervine  stuff  dat  makes  kings  ob  us 
all,  an'  fur  dat  reezun,  fotch  up,  in  his  ole  aige, 
befo'  dis  honorbul  cote  fur  transgreshuns  ob  de 
law.  Yo'  ax  me  ef  I'm  gilty  ob  makin'  whisky 
—dat  wild-cat  stuff  dat  makes  de  rag-weeds 
bloom  in  paradise,  an'  turns  de  roses  ob  hope  into 
de  dog-fennel  ob  dispair,  an'  I  tells  yo' — No  ! 
But  ef  yo'  ax  me  ef  I  gilty  ob  makin'  er  leetle  ob 
dat  dervine  Mixer,  which  turns  de  tuneless  hart 
ob  de  mos'  wretched  an'  misserbul  ob  mankind 
inter  a  hall  wid  harps  ob  er  thousan'  strings,  es  I 
nurver  tole  er  lie  in  my  life,  I  must  tell  yo' — Yes  ! 
Not  dat  vile  stuff  dat  kills  our  moral  s'washun, 
an'  lays  us  in  de  gutter  wid  de  dorgs,  but  dat 
blessed  angul-ile,  which,  taken  in  moderashun,  es 
er  gemman  should,  clothes  de  beggar  in  silk, 
makes  frien's  fur  de  frien'less  an'  coins  gold  fur 
de  goldless.  Dis  am  de  licker  dat  turns  rags  inter 
roses,  ole  maids  inter  bloomin'  gals  an'  er  grabe- 
yard  funeral  discorse  inter  er  poem  on  parerdise. 
Dat  puts  cheerity  inter  our  harts,  youth  in  our 
veins,  an'  spreads  de  warm  cumfort  ob  lub  over 
de  feather-bed  ob  de  yunerverse.  Dis  am  de 
licker  dat  onlocks  de  doors  ob  de  magernashun 
an'  leads  de  poet's  mind  through  de  streets 
ob  gold,  'mid  crystal  pillars,  up  ter  de  wall  ob 
amerthest,  up  ter  de  battlements  ob  light, 
1 68 


from  Tennessee 

\vhar  he  sees  de  stars  ob  beautiful  thoughts, 
a  millyun  miles  befo'  dey  gets  ter  him, 
cummin  on  angel  wings  in  beams  ob  sun- 
light !  Dis  am  de  licker  dat  falls  lak  a  splinter 
ob  starlight  ter  string  de  dewdraps  ob  de  hart. 
Dat  Sollermon  drunk,  an'  David  sung  to  ;  dat 
Washington  praised,  an'  Ole  Hick'ry  swore  by. 
Heah  it  am,  gemmen  ob  de  jury,'  an'  I  pulled  out 
dat  decanter  an'  hilt  it  befo'  dey  eyes,  an'  it 
blind  'em,  lak  de  sunshine  risin'  in  de  valley — 
'  lieah  it  am,  gemmen  ob  de  jury,'  I  sed,  '  wid 
truth  in  its  eyes,  an'  lub  in  its  heart — de  em- 
bottled  poem  ob  de  yunerverse  !  Taste  it,  an'ef 
it  am  whisky — dat  stuff  wid  cat-claws  an'  debbil 
breath — den  sen'  me  up  'long  wid  dis  po'  white 
trash  fur  makin'  wild-cat  whisky,  es  er  groveller 
wid  swine  an'  er  eater  ob  husks. 

"  '  But  ef  it  smells  lak  de  new-bohn  href  ob  de 
infunt  anguls,  looks  inter  yore  eyes  lak  de  lakes 
ob  lub  in  de  depths  ob  de  blue-eyed  cherubins, 
an'  tastes  lak  de  resurrected  dream  ob  de  fus' 
kiss  yore  sweet-hart  gib  yo'  in  de  days  ob  long 
ergo,  den  sot  de  ole  man  free  !' 

"Wid  dat,  1  oncorks  de  bottle,  an'  lo  !  dat 
dingy  ole  cote-room  change  in  er  minnit  !  'Stid 
ob  de  smell  ob  books,  an'  sweatin'  lawyers,  an5 
ambeer,  an'  dusty  floors,  yo'd  er  thort  all  de 
skule  gals  an'  nymphs  ob  de  ages  hed  cum  dar  ter 
bathe,  perfumed  wid  de  otter  ob  de  roses  ob  Eden 
an'  dey  ha'r  dat  fell  ober  dey  allerbaster  sholders 
169 


Songs  and  Stories 

'nointed  wid  de  oil  Eppollo  made.  Yo'd  er  thout 
de  janitor  ob  heaben  hed  turned  de  sprinklin'  pot 
ob  glory  on  de  yearth,  filled  wid  de  water  ob 
peppermint  an'  camfire,  purfumed  wid  vi'lets  an' 
tinctured  wid  angul  tears  ! 

"  De  ole  figured  paper  on  de  walls  blossumed 
inter  rale  flowers  ;  de  dingy  ole  winders  blazed 
lak  de  winders  ob  mohnin'  when  de  day-king 
rise  ;  de  ole  dusty  mattin'  on  de  floor  wuz  er 
carpet  ob  blue-grass  down  in  de  medder,  wid 
daisys  an'  daffodils  all  ober  it,  an'  eben  de  spider- 
webs  on  de  ceilin'  wuz  changed  inter  tapestry  ob 
silver,  whilst  de  freskoes  hung  down  in  fillergree 
works  ob  gold.  I  looked  at  de  jedge  an'  de  jury, 
an'  dar  dey  sot  in  stuperment  an'  'stonishment, 
wid  acquittal  writ  in  de  tender  depths  ob  dey 
meltin'  eyes. 

"  I  handed  dat  decanter  to  de  fus'  juryman — he 
jes'  smelt  it  an'  fell  ober  in  er  dead  faint,  callin' 
out,  sorter  dream  lak,  '  Not  gilty,  not  gilty.'  De 
naixt  one  taste  it,  an'  I  seed  de  light  ob  Genersis 
break  in  on  'im.  De  thud  one  tuck  er  big  swaller 
an'  dey  had  to  hold  'im  to  de  yearth  to  keep  'im 
frum  'vaporatin',  lak  Exercius,  to  heaben.  An' 
all  de  yudders,  es  fast  es  dey  taste  it,  wuz  added 
to  de  numbers  ob  dem  dat  wuz  fur  me  !  But 
when  it  got  ter  de  jedge,  suh,  he  tuck  er  grate 
big  swaller  ter  see  ef  I  wuz  lyin'  or  not,  an'  Gord 
bless  yore  soul,  honey,  he  hadn't  mor'n  taste  it 
befo'  he  riz  frum  dat  bench,  shouted  '  Glory, 
170 


from  Tennessee 

hallyluyer  !'  an'  fell  on  my  neck  an'  wept.  I 
look  'roun'  at  de  lawyurs  what  hadn't  tasted  it, 
suh,  an'  dar  dey  sot,  froze  ter  dey  chairs,  wid  de 
s'liver  runnin'  outen  de  corners  ob  dey  mouths 
lak  po'  houns  'roun'  er  sawsage  mill.  An'  befo' 
I  knowed  whut  it  all  mean  dey  all  broke  out 
singin'  dat  good  ole  him  : 

"  '  Dis  am  de  stuff  we  long  hab  sought, 
An'  mourned  bekase  we  foun'  it  not.' 

"  When  I  seed  I  had  'em  on  de  mourner's  bench, 
suh,  den  it  wuz  my  time  !  I  drawed  mysef  up  two 
er  three  foot  higher,  buttoned  up  my  ole  King  Al- 
frud  cote  anudder  link,  an'  sed  : 

"  '  An'  now,  gem  men  ob  de  jury,  sense  dis 
Nevvnighted  States  govument  dun  see  fit  to  'raign 
me,  I  wanter  'raign  hit.  I've  bin  heah  befo', 
yo'  honor.  I've  bin  heah  to  listen  to  de  greates' 
lawyer  de  State  ob  Tennessee  eber  raised,  my 
ole  Marster,  de  'Onerbul  Felix  Grundy,  an'  time 
an'  ergin  I've  seed  'im  stand  rat  heah,  in  dis  very 
cote  dat  I've  got  on,  an'  in  dis  very  room,  an' 
shake  de  roof  wid  de  thunder  ob  his  larnin'  an' 
de  lightnin'  ob  his  wit.  Allers  on  de  side  ob  de 
po',  allers  on  de  side  of  jestus.  An'  ef  he  wuz 
erlive  terday,  he'd  git  up  heah  an'  say  to  yo'  all  : 
'  Let  dis  ole  nigger  go  !' — an'  yo'  kno'  yo'd  do  it. 

"  'In  de  good  ole  days,  gemmen,  he  tort  me 
menny  things.  He  tort  me  to  be  true,  to  tell  de 
truf  an'  ter  raise  bosses.  Men  lak  him  an'  yore 
171 


Songs  and  Stories 

fathers,  gemmen,  tuck  my  ancestors  out  oh  de 
jungles  oh  barharity  an'  led  us  inter  de  blessed 
temple  oh  religun  an'  light.  Dey  made  slaves  oh 
us  ter  do  it,  gemmen,  but  1  thang  Gord  1  wuz 
erlowed  ter  be  er  slave  in  dis  wurl  fur  de  sake  oh 
hein'  etunnally  free  in  de  naixt.  Menny  an' 
menny  er  time,  gemmen,  I've  driv  my  ole  Mars- 
terin  his  cheeriutan'  fo',  an'  he'd  tell  yo' hissef, 
ef  he  wuz  heah  terday,  I'm  de  onlies'  nigger  lef 
in  de  State  ob  Tennessee  dat  kin  drive  er  thur- 
rerbred  fo'-in-han',  holdin'  de  ribbins  wid  de  fo' 
fingers  ob  my  lef  han'  an'  playin'  on  de  tender 
moufs  es  gently  es  er  lady  touches  de  strings  ob 
de  light  gittar.  He  made  me  er  Christun  an'  er 
gemman,  aigucated  my  po'  cannabal  pallit  to  de 
glory  ob  Tennessee  muttenan'de  sweetness  ob 
Tennessee  beef.  An'  it  wuz  frum  his  side-board 
I  fus'  got  de  taste  ob  dat  liker  yo'  jes'  tasted — dat 
licker  dat  makes  kings  ob  us  all — an'  all  I  wanted 
in  dis  wurl  wuz  to  stay  wid  'im  twell  I  die. 

"  '  But  in  my  ole  aige,  heah  cums  dis  New- 
nighted  States  guvermen'  an'  sots  me  free.  An' 
O,  Marsters,  dey  sot  me  free  indeed — free  frum 
de  friends  1  lubbed,  free  frum  de  cumperney  ob 
gemmen,  free  frum  de  good  things  ob  de  wurl,  an', 
wuss  ob  all,  true  frum  de  sight  but  not  de  appertite 
ob  dat  licker  dat  makes  kings  ob  us  all  !  'Stici 
ob  drivin'  er  cheeriut  an  fo'  down  de  pike  ob  de 
valley  ob  plenty,  I  mus'  plow  er  leetle  tow-haided 
muel  on  de  flinty  hillsides  ob  poverty.  'Stici  ob 
172 


from  Tennessee 

'soshatin'  wid  learned  men  who  sot  in  de  counsils 
ob  dis  country  an'  de  cotes  ob  de  kings,  I  mus' 
be  cussed  an'  mocked  by  de  hill-billy  an'  de  po' 
white,  or  forced  to  'soshate  wid  low-lived  an' 
low-mannered  niggers  an'  fiel'-han's.  An'  'stid 
obdrinkin'  de  Mixer  ob  life  frum  de  decanter  ob 
de  gords,  in  my  ole  aige,  I'm  forced  ter  drink  de 
branch  water  ob  poverty  frum  de  gourd  dat  grows 
in  de  barn-yard  ob  toil.  Aigucated  er  gemman, 
turned  out  wid  tuffs  !  Raised  on  roast  beef  an' 
mutton,  now  hafter  hustle  ter  git  bacon  an' 
greens  !  Used  ter  de  licker  ob  civerlizashun,  now 
hafter  drink  de  branch  water  ob  barbarety.  An' 
ef  I  chance  ter  remember  de  things  ob  my  youth 
an'  yield  ter  de  temptashun  ob  er  higher  aigu- 
cashun,  fotch  up  heah  in  my  ole  aige  ter  be  saunt 
ter  jail  fur  tryin'  ter  lib  lak  er  gemman  an'  er 
Christim.  Gemmen,  kin  yo'  do  it  ?  Marsters, 
will  yo'  sen'  de  ole  man  up  ?' 

"'No!  by  the  Eternal,  we  won't!'  said  er 
nice  lookin'  gemman  dat  wuz  settin'  on  de  jury, 
an'  den  dey  all  riz  an'  say  :  '  Jedge,  not  gilty  ! 
Not  gilty  !'  An'  dey  crowd  'roun'  me  so  de  jedge 
has  ter  'journ  cote,  an'  dey  shook  my  ban'  wid 
de  glory  ob  dat  licker  still  in  dey  eyes  shinin'  lak 
cherubins  in  de  lakes  ob  lub.  An'  es  de  jedge 
pass  out  he  tech  my  arm  an'  say  : 

"'Washington,  de  jury  foun'  yo'  not  gilty, 
but  heah  am  fifty  dollars  to  pay  de  tax  on  de 
naixt  run  ob  de  still  at  Indian  Camp  Springs; 


Songs  and  Stories 

an'  ef  it  happens  ter  be  er  good  deal  too  much 
ter  pay  de  river-new,  jes'  make  er  leetle  mo'  an' 
send  it  ter  yore  friend,  de  jedge  ob  de  Suddern 
Deestrick  ob  de  Newnighted  States.'  " 


from  Tennessee 


A  CAVALRY    DRILL    IN    OLD  TENNESSEE. 


in,  gentlemen,  fall  in!  Two  erbreast 
there,  an'  no  foolishness  !  Tom  Riddick, 
can't  you  keep  that  mule  still  ?  Come,  come, 
gentlemen,  do  fall  in  at  the  command  !  Do  git 
into  line  !  Promptness  is  the  fust  thing  in  mil- 
ertary." 

It  was  a  balmy  Saturday  evening  in  a  village 
of  Tennessee  —  a  drill  day  with  the  boys  —  about 
the  year  1850.  To  correctly  understand  this 
sketch,  and  it  is  taken  from  nature,  I  must  first 
ask  you  to  remember  that  from  its  earliest  his- 
tory Tennessee  has  been  called  the  "Volunteer 
state,"  an  appellation  won  by  the  promptness 
of  her  sons  to  respond  to  their  country's  call 
for  volunteers.  In  fact,  the  state  may  almost 
be  said  to  have  been  born  fighting,  if  such 
a  term  may  be  applied  to  an  abstract  common- 
wealth, for  certain  it  is  that  her  sons  played  a 
conspicuous  part  in  the  revolutionary  war,  before 
the  then  "  western  territory  of  North  Carolina  " 
had  been  divided  off  into  the  present  state  of 
Tennessee.  After  that  war  the  aggressive  spirit 


Songs  and  Stories 

of  the  warlike  tribe  of  Indians  which  occupied  the 
beautiful  country  of  middle  and  west  Tennessee 
and  the  fine  virgin  land  of  the  Gulf  States  as- 
sisted in  no  small  degree  in  keeping  up  that  mili- 
tary spirit  so  earnestly  begun  in  the  earlier  days. 
It  needed  only  the  fiery  spirit  of  Andrew  Jackson 
to  firmly  fix  the  fighting  spirit  of  the  state,  and  in 
him  it  received  the  full  measure  of  all  that  was 
needed — yes,  and  more.  The  head  and  front  of 
all  this  military  enthusiasm  was  centered  in  the 
infantry  musters,  cavalry  drills  being  rarer,  and, 
we  believe,  not  often  attempted  till  the  period 
directly  following  the  Mexican  war,  and  then  not 
to  the  extent  of  the  old  musters.  The  following 
account  given  me  by  an  octogenarian  of  the 
good  old  times  I  have  endeavored  faithfully  to 
narrate.  If  it  appears  a  little  rough,  pray  re- 
member that  those  were  rough  and  ready  times, 
and  that  to  attempt  to  describe  the  drill  without 
giving  the  language  and  personnel  of  the  drillers 
would  be  like  painting  a  battle  scene  and  leaving 
out  the  blood. 

"Fall  in,  gentlemen,  fall  in  !" 

This  command  came  from  Col.  Dick  Posey,  a 
fine  old  gentleman  of  sixty  years,  who  had  seen 
service  in  the  war  of  1812  and  the  Mexican  war, 
brave,  honest,  simple  and  unaffected,  but  who 
had  forgotten  all  his  military  learning  except  a 
proud  and  martial  bearing,  and  that  "all  cavalry- 
men must  turn  out  their  toes  while  riding."  On 
176 


from  Tennessee 

this  particular  evening  the  Colonel's  bearing  was 
truly  grand,  the  occasion  being  one  of  great  im- 
portance to  him  ;  for  aside  from  the  fact  that  he 
was  proud  of  the  military  position  he  held  and  the 
reputation  he  had  made  in  the  war,  it  was  well- 
known  that  the  Colonel  was  a  candidate  for  the 
state  legislature,  and  much  of  his  success  de- 
pended on  the  manner  in  which  he  displayed  his 
knowledge  of  war.  He  was  mounted  on  a  long, 
slim,  raw-boned  black  mare,  whose  every  rib 
could  be  counted,  but  as  fat  as  a  nervous  three- 
quarter  thoroughbred  could  well  be  with  the  sad- 
dle scarcely  ever  off  of  her  during  the  day,  and 
as  often  as  once  a  week  good  for  a  half-night's 
chase  after  the  hounds.  She  carried  a  high  head 
and  a  rat-tail,  and  was  so  thin  in  the  girth  that 
the  Colonel  could  almost  wrap  his  long  legs 
around  her.  Withal,  she  was  a  great  fool  and 
ready  to  shy  at  the  slightest  provocation,  a  trick 
which  gave  her  owner  the  opportunity  he  wanted 
to  show  off  his  skill  as  a  rider. 

To  the  Colonel's  side  was  buckled  a  long  saber 
that  nearly  touched  the  ground,  balanced  by  a 
pistol  in  a  holster  that  looked  large  enough  to  be 
a  leather  coffin  for  a  baby  mummy.  This  pistol, 
by  the  way,  was  of  a  character  that  I  cannot,  in 
justice,  pass  over  without  a  word  as  to  its  indi- 
viduality. It  was  loaded  by  means  of  powder, 
balls  and  caps,  and  was  nearly  as  heavy  as  a 
sporting  gun  of  to-day.  Its  peculiarity  lay  in  the 

12  I 


Songs  and  Stories 

fact  that  it  was  exceedingly  "touchous"  about 
going  off,  and  if  loaded  too  heavily,  when  fired, 
every  chamber  went  off  simultaneously,  the  balls 
flying  in  every  direction  except  straight  forward. 
It  required  more  skill  to  fire  it  without  killing 
everybody  on  each  side  of  it  than  it  now  requires 
to  properly  fire  a  Catling  or  a  Hotchkiss.  But 
to  return  to  the  Colonel.  A  homespun  suit,  dyed 
with  copperas,  a  slouched  hat  and  feather  and 
cavalry  boots  completed  his  attire. 

His  company  consisted  of  fifty  or  more  farmers 
mounted  on  nearly  every  beast  that  the  soil  of 
the  state  would  grow.  Jim  McHyde,  the  wit  of  the 
village,  had  even  ridden  in  on  a  steer,  decorated 
with  cow-bells;  and,  suddenly  rushing  out  from 
the  thicket  behind  the  only  "  grocery  "  in  town, 
he  plunged  into  the  ranks  with  such  a  clang  and 
shout  as  to  stampede  the  entire  company  for  a 
moment.  As  the  occasion  was  one  of  more  or 
less  fun,  Jim  was  ordered  out,  his  steer  turned 
loose,  and  Jim  himself  was  told  to  get  up  the  old 
cannon,  brought  back  from  Mexico,  and  fire  it 
after  the  drill  was  over ;  a  part  of  the  military  ex- 
ercises scrupulously  carried  out  at  every  drill, 
chiefly  to  impress  the  importance  of  the  occasion 
on  the  small  boys  and  "women  folks"  of  the 
surrounding  country.  The  company  had  been 
coming  in  since  twelve  o'clock.  The  grocery, 
nowadays  euphoniously  called  the  saloon,  had 
done  a  rushing  business.  Several  horse  swaps 
178 


from  Tennessee 

had  taken  place,  there  had  been  three  "  quarter- 
horse  races  "  down  the  main  street  of  the  village, 
and  a  fight  or  two  was  not  omitted  from  the  regu- 
lar program.  Many  of  the  company  had  ridden 
in  on  brood  mares,  and  as  it  was  the  spring  of  the 
year  these  had  brought  their  colts  along  with 
them.  Each  colt  had  been  carefully  criticised  by 
a  bunch  of  judges,  while  its  proud  owner  en- 
thusiastically pointed  out  its  fine  points  and  ex- 
patiated on  its  breeding.  Finally,  the  company 
had  all  assembled,  and,  after  mounting,  Colonel 
Posey  advanced  towards  the  bunch,  exclaiming  : 

"  Fall  in  now,  gentlemen,  fall  in  !  Two  er- 
breast  an'  set  straight  in  the  saddle.  Git  in  quick 
an'  turn  out  yer  toes,"  and  he  rode  behind  the 
bunch  of  men,  mares  and  mules. 

At  this  command  there  was  a  general  spurring 
and  rush  as  each  one  endeavored  to  get  into  line 
with  military  promptness,  but  no  one  seemed  to 
know  where  the  line  was  and  how  to  get  into  it, 
and  to  add  to  the  general  confusion,  the  colts  got 
mixed  up  and  rushed  around  neighing  for  their 
respective  dams. 

"Colonel,"  said  Dick  Thompson,  who  was 
mounted  on  a  small  grey  mule,  "hadn't  these 
here  colts  better  be  penned  fust  ?  One  ov  'em  is 
here  pesterin'  my  ole  mule  mighty,"  he  remarked, 
as  several  of  the  colts  in  the  general  confusion 
were  going  around  nudging  their  noses  under  the 
flanks  of  any  four-legged  beast  they  could  find. 
179 


Songs  and  Stories 

"A  great  idee,  Dick,"  said  the  Colonel. 
"Gentlemen,  all  them  that's  mounted  on  brood 
mares  will  please  go  into  Cooper's  stable  yard 
and  shut  in  the  colts."  At  this,  for  twenty  min- 
utes there  was  the  greatest  confusion  in  getting 
each  colt  to  follow  its  dam  into  the  stable  yard, 
and  much  more  in  slipping  the  dam  out  and  leav- 
ing the  colt  behind  ;  but  it  was  finally  accom- 
plished. 

"Now,  gentlemen,"  said  the  Colonel,  as  he  rode 
around  the  bunch  again,  "  form  inter  two  straight 
lines ;  set  straight  in  yer  saddles,  and  turn  out 
yer  toes  !  Yes,  gentlemen,  no  foolin'  now.  Lay 
erside  yer  pranks,  git  inter  line,  set  straight" 
riding  down  the  line  very  erect — "  in  yer  saddles 
and  turn  out  yer — whoa,  Molly  ! — yer  toes. 
Dick,  set  straight  there,  won't  you  ?  Git  inter 
line,  boys  ;  fall  inter  line  !" 

"Colonel,  there  ain't  no  line  to  fall  inter,"  said 
Dick,  chagrined  at  being  personally  mentioned  in 
the  matter — "  how  kin  a  feller  fall  inter  a  thing 
that  ain't?" 

"That's  about  so,  Dick,"  said  the  Colonel; 
"you're  right.  Here,  Josh  Giddens  !" — seizing 
Josh's  horse  by  the  bit — "  keep  right  still.  Now, 
boys,  form  side  and  side  to  Josh  Giddens.  Don't 
git  too  close,  now  ;  leave  room  to  use  your  saber 
arm  and  to  turn  out  yer  toes.  Here,  boys,  help 
Dick  to  pull  that  mule  into  line — damn  er  mule,  I 
say  " — seeing  Dick's  mule  holding  back  and  roll- 
1 80 


from  Tennessee 

ing  the  white  of  his  eyes  around  at  the  crowd  on 
each  side  of  him.  "  That's  right  ;  now  form  a 
second  line  behind  this  one — good  ergin  !  That's 
er  good  platoon — hold  yer  hosses  still  !  Stop 
talkin'  in  ranks  ! — there,  now,  gentlemen,  don't 
bring  enny  more  touchous  horses  here — don't  do 
it — war  means  killin',  but  it  don't  mean  gettin' 
yer  head  kicked  off  by  some  boss  in  yer  own  line. 
(This  on  account  of  a  gray  mare  letting  fly  both 
heels  at  an  inquisitive  mule  behind  her.)  Now, 
gentlemen,  have  yer  formed  ?" — riding  down  the 
line  and  inspecting  it. 

"Yes,  yes;  well,  that's  pritty  good,  pritty 
good.  A  fine-looking  body  of  men — equal  to  any 
I  saw  in  Mexico.  Now,  gentlemen,  pay  strict 
attention  to  the  commands — set  straight  in  yer 
saddles  and  turn  out  yer  toes — hold  yer  pieces 
right — set  straight — look  square  to  the  front — turn 
out  yer— 

Bang  !  !  ! 

This  discharge  came  from  the  old  cannon  which 
Jim  McHyde,  in  a  spirit  of  fun  and  backed  by  the 
boys  of  the  village,  had  drawn  up  under  an  oak 
tree  in  the  rear  of  the  company,  and,  having 
loaded  it  with  a  half-pound  of  powder,  and  waited 
till  the  company  was  intently  interested  in  the 
Colonel's  instructions,  had  quietly  applied  a  red- 
hot  iron  to  the  fuse  as  he  stood  behind  the  tree, 
and  watched  the  effect  the  discharge  would  have 
on  the  company  in  front. 
181 


Songs  and  Stories 

And  it  was  startling.  All  were  country  horses, 
unused  to  battle's  grim  roar,  and  as  the  fearful 
discharge  thundered  in  their  rear,  many  whirled 
round  to  face  the  dread  monster,  but  the  most  of 
them  were  seized  with  a  keen  desire  to  get  out  of 
the  way.  Dick's  gray  mule  shot  forward  as  if 
he  had  been  the  projectile  itself,  and  many  of  the 
others  followed  suit.  The  Colonel's  mare,  much 
to  her  owner's  disgust,  whirled,  and,  fixing  both 
eyes  and  ears  on  the  cloud  of  smoke,  seemed 
afraid  to  turn  her  back  and  run,  but  immediately 
began  to  back  off  down  the  road  with  surprising 
agility,  leaving  her  rider  powerless  to  stop  her. 
When  fifty  yards  down  the  road  she  concluded 
she  was  far  enough  to  turn  tail  without  being 
devoured  by  the  unknown  monster  ;  so,  seeing  a 
convenient  corner,  she  suddenly  whirled,  nearly 
unseating  her  rider,  and  made  frantic  efforts  to 
get  away.  It  took  twenty  minutes  to  restore 
order  and  place  Jim  McHycle  under  arrest,  which 
the  Colonel  did  without  delay,  punctuated  with 
language  more  impressive  than  elegant.  As  the 
only  safe  place  was  the  rear  end  of  the  bar-room, 
forty  of  the  company  immediately  volunteered 
their  services  to  take  the  luckless  Jim  there  and 
keep  him  till  further  orders.  Two  were  detailed, 
and  Jim  was  forced  to  "  treat  "  them  on  arrival. 

The  arrest  of  Jim  satisfied  all  parties,  and  they 
again  formed  in  lines. 

"Now,  gentlemen,"  said  the  Colonel,  "let's 
182 


from  Tennessee 

all  be  quiet.  The  unexpected  very  often  happens 
in  war,  an'  we  must  be  prepared.  But  the  man 
who  violates  the  rules  always  gets  his  jes'  dues." 
(Here  the  company  looked  longingly  toward  the 
bar-room,  where  Jim  and  his  guards  could  be 
plainly  seen  taking  a  three-fingered  drink,  and 
they  were  not  fully  convinced  that  Jim's  punish- 
ment was  a  just  reward.)  "  But  let  us  to  duty," 
he  added.  "  Now,  I  am  fust  goin'  to  drill  you  in 
the  use  of  the  saber,  and  all  them  that's  got  guns 
will  bring  'em  to  a  half-cock."  (Here  there  was 
a  general  clicking  down  the  rank.  Many  of  them 
had,  contrary  to  cavalry  rules,  brought  their  flint 
and  steel  muskets,  and  Ab  Perkins'  had  only  one 
notch  on  it,  it  was  so  old,  and  when  at  full  cock 
the  steel  was  almost  below  the  stock  itself.)  "A 
half-cock,  Mr.  Perkins,  if  you  please,"  said  the 
Colonel;  "lower  your  hammer  to  the  first 
notch." 

"  Kurnel,  my  ole  gun  ain't  got  but  one  notch," 
said  Ab,  and  he  added,  with  dry  humor :  "  She 
goes  to  h — 1  after  fire,  but  when  she  gits  it  she 
comes  back  with  er  bucketful." 

At  this  wit  of  Ab  the  entire  company  broke  out 
into  a  laugh,  in  which  the  Colonel  joined,  and  as 
his  gun  had  so  bad  a  reputation  and  visited  places 
of  questionable  resort,  Ab  was  allowed  to  take  it 
out  of  ranks  and  go  and  help  keep  Jim  McHyde 
straight. 

"Kurnel,"  said  Sam  Johnston,  a  small,  red- 
183 


Songs  and  Stories 

headed  warrior,  who  was  almost  too  full  to  sit 
straight  in  the  saddle,  "don't — you  think — sum- 
p'n's  wrong  with — my  old — gun?"  (holding  it  up, 
cocking  and  recocking  it  with  a  most  puzzled  look 
on  his  face).  "  She 'peers — to — click — pow'ful 
— ku'is — to  me." 

"Yes,  Sam,"  said  the  Colonel,  who  recog- 
nized the  fact  that  Sam  and  his  gun  were  both 
too  heavily  loaded,  "and  you  may  both  go  off," 
an  order  he  was  not  long  carrying  out,  but  fol- 
lowed with  the  taunts  of  the  company,  and  such 
remarks  as  "Set  straight  in  yer  saddle,  Sam  !" 
"  Turn  out  yer  toes,  Sam  !"  and  "  Look  at  ole 
wool  hat  an'  yeller  briches  on  a  billy  goat !"  But 
Sam  headed  for  the  grocery,  and  rode  on. 

"  Now,  gentlemen,"  said  the  commander,  "as 
we've  got  rid  of  all  them  that  can't  drill  properly, 
an'  the  rest  of  us  is  gentlemen  an'  horsemen, 
let's  get  down  to  business.  Now,  as  captain  of 
this  mounted  cavalry  company,  it  is  my  duty— 
in  fact,  I  am  commanded  by  the  laws  of  Tennes- 
see"—here  he  pulled  out  a  paper  from  his  pocket 
and  read  :  '  To  properly  drill  the  same  in  all  re- 
quirements of  cavalry  drill  and  practice.'  "  Now, 
gentlemen,"  said  the  Colonel  as  he  rode  slowly 
down  the  line  and  seemed  at  a  loss  to  know  ex- 
actly where  to  start,  "  the  fust,  an',  in  fact,  the 
only  rule  that  I  ever  heard  of  in  the  Mexican  war 
was  the  one  that  we  useter  have  an'  practice.  I 
never  read  it  out  of  a  book,  but  somehow  or  other 
184 


from  Tennessee 

we  all  kinder  centered  to  it,  an'  it's  the  only  rule 
I  know  of.  I  kin  give  you  that  rule  in  er  few 
words,  for  it's  all  I  know,"  he  said,  apologet- 
ically, "  erbout  cavalry,  an' it's  jes'  this:  Set 
straight  in  yer  saddle,  turn  out  yer  toes,  an'  ride 
at  the  enemy  !"  and  he  emphasized  the  rule,  as 
he  repeated  it  slowly,  by  shaking  his  index  finger 
and  gravely  gesticulating. 

"  Colonel,  don't  we  have  to  arm  and  mount 
fust?" 

This  question  came  from  the  ranks — from  Major 
Peeler — a  gentleman  aboutthe  age  of  the  Colonel, 
who  had  also  served  in  the  Mexican  war,  and 
who  thought  he  knew  quite  as  much  of  military 
matters  as  the  Colonel.  Out  of  ranks  he  was 
never  happier  than  when  telling  of  the  various 
battles  he  was  engaged  in  ;  in  ranks  he  took 
every  occasion  to  correct  any  errors  the  Colonel 
might  make,  much  to  that  gentleman's  disgust. 
In  fact,  he  had  been  a  candidate  against  the 
Colonel  for  the  captaincy  of  this  company,  but 
being  self-important  and  arrogant  and  a  poor 
"  mixer,"  he  had  met  the  fate  of  all  such  in  this 
free  country  and  been  left  in  the  ranks. 

"Arm  and  mount  fust!"  exclaimed  the  Colonel, 
hotly.  "Why,  we're  supposed  to  be  mounted 
or  else  we'd  be  nothing  but  infantry  !  Look  er 
here,  Major,"  said  the  Colonel,  with  a  good  deal 
of  spirit,  "  ef  you  want  to  drill  this  company, 
sir,  I'll  send  in  my  resignation." 

"  Go  on,  Colonel,  go  on  !"  shouted  the  com- 


Songs  and  Stories 

pany,  who  were  beginning  to  get  tired.  "Of 
course  you're  right.  Cal'v'ry  bound  to  be 
mounted  !  Ennybody  knows  that.  Go  on,  don't 
resign,  drill  us  and  let's  go  home." 

"Well,  then,  gentlemen,"  said  the  Colonel, 
calming  down  at  this  manifestation  of  his  popu- 
larity with  the  boys,  "  as  I  was  sayin',  the  only 
rule  I  know  is  to  set  straight  in  the  saddle,  turn 
out  yer  toes,  an'  ride  at  the  enemy.  An'  right  in 
that  rule  is  where  we  got  the  bes'  of  the  Mexi- 
cans ;  for  their  rule,  es  fur  es  I  was  able  to  see, 
was  to  hump  up  themselves  on  their  grass-bellied 
ponies  an'  git  up  an'  git.  Yes,  gentlemen,  by 
knowin'  an'  enforcin'  this  rule  we  whipped  the 
dirty  greasers  in  every  battle,  an'  by  follerin'  it 
to-morrer,"  he  added,  rising  in  his  stirrups  and 
shaking  his  saber,  "we  kin  whip  the  whole 
world."  Here  the  company  yelled  out  its  ap- 
plause in  a  long,  dismal  howl,  and,  when  it  had 
died  away,  a  squeaking  voice  shouted  in  the 
further  rank,  "  Whooraw  for  our  rule  an'  Jeems 
K.  Polk." 

"  So  that's  the  fust  rule,"  said  the  Colonel  ; 
"now,  how  to  do  this  is  the  next;"  for  the 
Colonel  saw  that  as  he  had  but  one  rule  he  must 
try  to  spread  out  what  he  did  have  as  far  as  possi- 
ble. 

"  First,  set  straight  in  yer  saddle,  like  you  see 

me" — riding  down  the  line   with  his    shoulders 

thrown  uncomfortably  back.     "Yer  coat-buttons 

square  between  yer  horse's  ears,  yer  left  hand 

186 


from  Tennessee 

holdin'  yer  reins,  yer  right  graspin'  yer  sword, 
with  the  pint  elevated  about  forty-five  degrees, 
yer  toes  turned  well  out,  so  !"  And  he  rode 
down  the  line  in  great  style,  at  sight  of  which 
every  man  straightened  himself  up  as  near  like 
the  Colonel  as  possible. 

"Second,  gentlemen,  you  must  ride  at  the 
enemy.  Now  'at,'  gentlemen,  is  a  very  little 
word,  but  it  is  bigger  than  a  bombshell  in  battle, 
and  means  more  than  everything  else  ;  in  fact, 
gentlemen,  it's  about  the  chief  thing  of  this  im- 
portant rule,  although  it  appears  so  small.  Ef 
you'd  leave  out  all  the  other  words  in  this  rule, 
and  jes'  git  into  yer  saddles  an'  say  at  'em  !  and 
then  do  it,  you'd  come  mighty  nigh  knowin'  all 
the  rules  of  war.  Don't  gallop  around  nor  ride 
about,  then  stop,  but  at,  straight  at,  and  do  it 
dam  fast,  to  keep  yer  courage  up  !" 

"  How  about  making  a  detour  and  a  flank 
movement?"  inquired  the  irrepressible  Major 
Peeler. 

"  Detours  and  flank  movements,"  repeated  the 
Colonel,  sarcastically.  "  Them's  mighty  high- 
soundin'  words,  Major,  but  they  ain't  worth  er 
dam  in  war.  Where,"  said  he,  getting  excited 
and  waving  his  sword,  "  did  we  ever  make  enny 
detours  in  the  Mexican  war  ?  The  only  detour  I 
ever  saw,"  he  thundered  with  withering  sarcasm, 
"  was  when  a  piece  of  an  Alabama  and  Tennes- 
see regiment  made  a  detour  after  a  Mexican 
187 


Songs  and  Stories 

goose  roast  one  night,  an'  got  cut  off  from  the 
regular  army  ;  they  came  detouring  back  to  camp 
the  next  mcrnin'  with  a  pack  of  greasers  at  their 
heels — the  only  time  in  the  whole  war  that  enny 
of  our  troops  showed  their  heels  to  a  Mexican." 

This  last  was  a  home  thrust,  for  it  was  well- 
known  in  the  village  that  the  Major  had  been  the 
leader  of  the  unfortunate  company  that  went  off 
on  the  raid  and  came  home  so  precipitately. 

"  Now,  gentlemen,"  said  the  Colonel,  "  I  have 
told  you  all  the  rules  an'  we'll  now  put  'em  into 
practice.  We'll  now  proceed  to  march  ;  but  we 
won't  go  no  further  " — apologetically,  since  some 
of  the  men  began  to  grumble  about  moving  at  all 
—"than  the  black-oak  stump  at  the  cross-roads 
an'  back  ergin.  Now,  when  1  say  'forward,' 
you  mustn't  go  forward,  but  only  prepare  for  it ; 
but  when  I  say  '  march,'  why  jes'  spur  up  an' 
walk  off."  Here  there  was  a  visible  commotion 
in  ranks,  as  several  of  the  men  had  been  sitting 
sideways  in  the  saddle  during  a  part  of  this 
long  discourse,  and  they  began  to  get  into  proper 
position.  "Now,  let  us  try,"  resumed  the 
Colonel. 

"  Forward  " — waiting  a  few  moments — "  hold 
on  !  hold  on  !  stop  !  stop  !  Don't  you  recollect 
I  said  you  mustn't  go  till  I  said  march  ?"  This 
to  the  men  eager  to  get  off,  and  starting  off  in 
every  kind  of  time  at  the  command,  forward. 
"Now,  git  inter  line  ergin;  it  looks  like  you'll 
188 


from  Tennessee 

never  learn  anything.  Why,  dammit,  gentlemen, 
you  almost  make  me  swear  !" 

After  much  confusion  they  again  got  into  line. 

"Now,  gentlemen,"  he  continued,  "please 
recollect  an'  don't  fergit.  Be  very  careful. 
When  I  say  march,  why,  move  off ;  if  I  say  trot, 
why,  jes'  trot  ;  if  I  say  gallop,  why,  jes'  gallop. 
This  milertary  business  ain't  nothin'  but  common 
sense  rigged  up  with  a  sword  an'  a  cocked  hat. 
Everything  is  plain,  an'  don't  fergit  it,  nor  to 
keep  your  toes  turned  out !" 

"We  won't,  Colonel,"  came  from  the  com- 
pany. "  [Jo  let  us  git  off — it's  nearly  sundown." 

"Well,  then,  forward,  march!"  and  after  a 
good  deal  of  spurring  and  clucking  some  of  the 
company  moved  off  and  the  others  gradually  fol- 
lowed suit,  a  sight  to  behold,  since  every  animal 
in  it  had  a  gait  peculiar  to  its  breed  and  the  wear 
and  tear  of  the  plow.  Some  went  fast,  some 
slow  ;  some  paced  and  others  trotted.  The  rear 
rank  ran  into  the  front  line,  while  the  flanks  be- 
came detached  from  the  main  body  and  struck  off 
in  a  separate  bunch,  headed  for  the  bar-room. 
The  rest  of  the  line  was  in  a  zig-zag  condition, 
and  its  path  would  have  been  the  line  of  a  worm 
fence  moving  to  the  gate  as  an  objective  point. 
At  this  point  some  one  left  the  gate  of  Cooper's 
stable  yard  open,  and  the  colts  came  tearing  out, 
whinnying  and  rushing  into  lines,  hunting  for  their 
respective  dams.  These  came  to  a  dead  halt,  with 
189 


Songs  and  Stories 

many  signs  of  satisfaction  and  motherly  proceed- 
ings. 

Now,  the  Colonel  was  a  man  of  wonderful  re- 
sources and  intuitive  forethought.  He  saw  that 
the  military  would  have  to  succumb  to  the  civil 
unless  something  was  done,  and  that  very 
quickly,  to  maintain  the  dignity  of  the  former. 
It  was  evident  that  Mars  must  give  way  to  Venus, 
and  that  without  the  formality  of  ceremony.  To 
one  less  gifted  than  the  Colonel,  the  day's  drill 
would  have  ended  in  confusion  and  disgrace. 
Not  so  with  him.  Riding  to  the  front,  with  a  look 
on  his  face  as  if  he  had  expected  all  this  and  it 
was  a  part  of  his  program,  he  issued  a  command 
never  before  heard  in  military  science — nay,  not 
even  in  the  Mexican  war.  Rising  in  his  stirrups, 
he  shouted,  in  his  deepest  voice  : 

"  Halt,  and  suckle  colts  !" 

This  seemed  to  please  everybody,  including 
the  colts,  after  which  the  company  took  a  drink 
around  and  rode  off  to  their  homes,  thoroughly 
satisfied  they  knew  all  that  was  necessary  for 
cavalry  to  learn. 


190 


from  Tennessee 


THE  TRUE  SINGER. 

I  STARTED  out  for  my  usual  drive  the  other 
evening,  and  the  first  thing  I  drove  into 
was  a  stratum— no,  a  flood — of  melody.  I  pulled 
up  quickly  and  looked  all  around.  I  could  hear 
it  but  I  could  not  see  the  musician.  It  seemed  to 
come  from  everywhere.  I  knew  the  rascal  that 
was  making  it,  and  the  white  oak  tree  he  was  in, 
but  the  mocking  bird,  like  all  true  singers,  is  so 
unpretentious  in  his  make-up,  and  so  near  the 
color  of  nature  generally,  that  I  could  scarcely 
tell  him  from  the  big,  honest  limb  he  was  sitting 
on.  And  I  knew  well  enough,  too,  why  his 
music  seemed  to  come  from  everywhere — he 
drew  it  from  everywhere,  and  he  never  pours  it 
out  twice  in  the  same  direction.  Ah,  he  is  the 
true  singer  !  Watch  him  just  now  a  minute  and 
see.  While  his  little  gray  throat  swells  and  puffs 
and  rolls  like  miniature  bellows,  and  his  tiny 
eyes,  "in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling,"  dart  about  here 
and  there,  now  at  the  earth  and  now  at  the 
heavens  above  him,  notice  how  his  little  head 
191 


Songs  and  Stories 

moves  from  side  to  side,  pouring  his  song  in  every 
direction,  and  varying  it  to  suit  every  new  and 
beautiful  sight  that  flashes  across  the  retina  of 
the  tiny  sentinels  in  his  eyes.  It  is  almost  comi- 
cal to  see  ho\v  earnest  he  is — not  to  sing,  but  to 
sing  of  some  new  thing.  And  so  he  "  doth  glance 
from  earth  to  heaven,  from  heaven  to  earth," 
and  involuntarily  he  pours  out  the  impression 
that  he  sees. 

"You  are  the  true  singer,  old  fellow,"  I  said, 
as  my  heart  welled  up  at  the  lesson  he  was  teach- 
ing me,  and  I  pulled  off  my  hat  in  his  presence. 
"You  are  the  true  singer.  Spring  is  glorious, 
but  you  are  not  singing  of  spring  until  your  spring 
song  is  a  spring  joke  among  the  other  birds.  The 
heavens  are  blue  but  you  don't  dwell  on  them 
always.  The  fields  are  green  and  sunshiny  and 
beautiful,  but  only  a  glint  of  them  has  crept  into 
your  music.  Your  mate  died  in  the  terrible  freeze 
of  last  winter,  and  that  tender  flutter  of  crape  in 
your  song  was  just  enough  to  draw  us  to  you. 
Had  you  hung  out  your  black  flag,  as  some  folk's 
do  who  imagine  they  are  mourning  thereby  for  the 
dead,  or  had  you  poured  your  misery  between 
me  and  the  sunshine,  I  would  ride  on  and  tell  you 
to  go  and  mate  with  a  blackbird.  But  O,  what  a 
singer  you  are  !  A  little  of  the  fields,  a  gleam 
from  the  air,  a  glint  from  the  sunshine  and  a  glow 
of  the  skies.  A  memory  of  a  dead  love,  a  tiny 
bit  of  mocking  humor,  a  quaint  shaft  of  musical 
192 


from  Tennessee 

satire,  a  withering  take-off  on  some  catbird  who 
thinks  he,  too,  is  a  singer  and  has  tried  to  imitate 
you,  and  a  jolly  laugh  at  the  foibles  of  man. 
Twinkles,  jests,  raptures,  dreams  ;  dances, 
songs,  brooks,  flowers ;  sermons,  poems,  music, 
stars — and  all  of  it — heaven  ! 

And  before  I  had  time  to  tire,  he  dropped  off 
the  limb  in  an  ecstasy  of  delight,  singing  all  the 
time,  and,  sweeping  in  long  curves  just  over  my 
head,  he  flew  up  the  shaded  pike  till  his  varia- 
tions died  away  in  the  distance. 


'3  193 


Songs  and  Stories 


HOW  THE  BISHOP  BROKE  THE  RECORD. 

(Old  Wash  is  a  Baptist,  and  it  was  with  great 
difficulty  and  many  misgivings  that  1  induced  him 
to  go  out  to  the  Episcopal  church  recently  and  hear 
the  Bishop  of  Tennessee  preach.  The  old  man 
went  wild  over  the  sermon,  and  this  is  the 
peculiar  way  he  took  to  tell  about  it.)* 

"  T  X  7"AL,  sah,  I  went  in  dar  an'  sot  down  in  dat 
VV  part  ob  de  gran'  stand  set  off  fur  de 
colored  folks.  I  look  erroun'  an'  seed  leetle  ban- 
nisters an'  things  runnin'  'round  'boutde  prooties' 
an'  neates'  mile  track  you  eber  seed,  wid  de 
fence  all  painted  wid  gold  an'  lit  up  wid  'lectric 
lights.  Beautiful  pictures  hung  up  in  de  club  house 
gallery  an'  de  soft  light  cum  in  through  de  painted 
winders.  I  tell  yo',  sah,  dese  yere  Piscolopiums 
kno'  how  to  keep  dey  church  track,  ef  dey  do  stick 


*  To  avoid  any  impression  of  disrespect  I  may  say  that 
my  friend,  the  actual  Bishop  of  Tennessee,  has  expressed 
his  personal  enjoyment  of  this  story. — J.  T.  M. 
194 


from  Tennessee 

to  de  high  wheel  sulky,  an'  kinder  think  dat  er  re- 
cord made  dar,  at  dat  way  ob  gwine,  will  'title  'em 
to  registration  in  de  final  year  book  quickern  enny 
yudder  track.  An'  it  wuz  ergood  un — fer  it  run 
erroun'  es  smooth  es  er  widder's  courtship,  an'  it 
hed  bin  harrered  an'  scraped  an'  rolled  till  it  wuz 
es  slick  es  er  carpet  ob  banana  peels. 

"  Yo'  ain't  nurver  noticed  how  dese  church 
tracks  differ  frum  one  er  nuclder,  lies  yo',  Boss?" 
asked  the  old  man,  with  a  sly  smile.  "  Wai,  dey 
do.  Now,  ef  dat  hed  bin  er  Mefodis  track  it 
wouldn't  er  hed  no  fence  erroun'  it,  kinder  free 
fur  all,  no  money  to  be  paid  at  de  gate  an'  free 
lunch  fur  ebrybody.  Ef  it  had  bin  a  Baptis'  track 
it  would  er  bin  out  in  some  big  medder  bottom, 
an'  stid  ob  bein'  roun',  it  would  jes'  foller  de 
meanderins  ob  de  ribber,  handy  fur  spungin'  off 
de  bosses.  An'  dey  wouldn't  'low  nuffm'  to  go 
on  dat  track  but  pacers,  either,  an'  dey  must  all 
be  ob  de  Hal  fambly — kinder  close  kin,  yer  kno'. 
De  Presberterians  would  er  had  dey  track  es 
'roun'  es  it  cud  be,  an'  sech  er  high,  whitewashed 
fence  'roun'  it  dat  nobody  cud  see  ober  it,  an' 
'bout  ebry  haf  hour  dey  would  run  out  er  big  fo'- 
hoss  sprinkler,  furever  sprinklin'  an'  sprinklin' 
it,  eben  fur  de  yearlin'  races.  O,  it's  funny  ter 
see  how  dey  all  deffer,"  he  said. 

"  But  dar  dis  one  wuz,  es  prcoty  es  it  cud  be, 
an'  free  fur  all.  An'  jes'  off  to  de  lef  dey  had 
de  nices'  leetle  jedges'  stan'  all  painted  in  silver 


Songs  and  Stories 

an'  trimmed  wid  gold,  while  de  timers'  box  sat  on 
de  right  wid  leetle  peep  holes  in  it  an'  pictures  ob 
flyin'  things  wid  wings  jes'  erbove — bosses  dat  had 
broken  de  records,  1  spec.  Jes'  den  de  ban' in  de 
ban'  stan'  struck  up  de  sweetes'  music  1  urver 
heurd.  It  went  all  through  my  soul  an'  made  me 
feel  like  I  wuz  er  chile  ergin  an'  my  good  ole  mam- 
my, long  dead  an'  gone,  wuz  singin'  me  ter  sleep  at 
de  cabin  on  de  ole  plantashun,  to  de  tune  ob  '  De 
ole  folks  at  home.'  Den  de  perfume  floated  out 
like  de  smell  ob  de  jess'mins  I  useter  smell  by  de 
cabin  do',  an'  de  candles  flickered  on  de  quarter 
posts  like  de  fireflies  in  de  dusk  ob  my  childhood 
days,  an'  all  dese  things  jes'  made  me  hongry  to 
heah  sum  good  gospil  ergin.  Bimeby,  sum  leetle 
angel  boys  all  dressed  in  white  wid  shinin'  col- 
lars cum  marchin'  in  singin'  an'  bringin'  programs 
fur  de  races  in  dey  ban's — leastwise  dat's  whut  I 
tuk  'em  to  be.  1  tell  yo',  sah,  it  wuz  gran',  an' 
es  I  sot  dar  an'  tuck  it  all  in  an'  looked  at  dat 
shinin'  track  wid  de  golden  fence,  I  sed  to 
myself : 

"  '  Great  Scott  !  but  ef  dey  can't  go  fas'  on  dis 
track'  I  lakter  kno'  whut  de  yuse  ob  tryin'  enny 
y udder  !' 

"  When  de  music  stopped  de  feller  in  de  jedges' 
stan'  made  some  'nouncements  an'  den  he  'lowed 
dat  de  Bishop  ob  Tennessee  would  go  er  exer- 
bishun  mile  ergin  time,  an'  den  I  heurd  de  bell 
ring  tingerling,  tingerling,  an'  de  ban'  struck  up 
196 


from  Tennessee 

lively  lak,  an' de  Bishop  cum  pacin'  in.  Soon  as 
I  looked  at  Mm,  sez  I  : 

"  '  He'll  do— he's  er  good  un  !  Got  mos'  too 
much  riggin'  on  'im  to  suit  my  taste,  but  den 
ebry  man  knows  whut's  bes'  fur  his  own  boss. 
Ef  he  \vuz  mine  I'd  take  off  dat  sweater  an'  white 
blankit  wid  red  embroidery,  dem  knee  boots  an' 
dat  obercheck.  His  gait's  all  right  an'  true  es 
clockwork,  an'  he  don't  need  nuffm'  but  er  pair 
ob  quarter  boots  an'  fo'-ounce  shoes.  But  dat's 
all  right,'  I  sed  ergin,  '  eberybody  knows  whut's 
bes'  fur  his  own  boss  an'  dem  fancy  riggins  am 
prooty,  ter-be-sho'.' 

"Graceful  ?  He  wuz  es  graceful  es  er  swan 
on  er  silver  lake,  an'  es  he  paced  up  de  quarter 
stretch  to  sco'  down,  I  seed  dat  he  wuz  gwinter 
gib  de  recurd  er  close  call.  Down  he  cum  so 
smooth  yo'  cudden'tsee  his  riggin',  an'  es  nachul 
es  er  eagle  draps  frum  his  mountin  peak  in  de 
valley  belo'.  Dey  didn't  bafter  say  '  go  '  to  him 
but  onc't,  an'  den  he  went  erway  lak  er  winged 
angel  on  de  top  spar  ob  er  fiyin'  yot. 

"  '  He  that  loseth  his  life  for  my  sake  shall  save 
it,'  he  said,  an'  ebry  lick  he  hit  went  home  to  de 
ole  man's  hart.  O,  hit  wuz  er  clip.  He  tuck  up 
Greek  art  an'  literachure,  an'  he  painted  it  so 
beautiful  yo'  cud  see  de  statue  ob  Diana  beam 
outen  bis  eyes  an'  de  grace  ob  Apollo  fall  frum 
his  hands.  Away  he  went  at  dat  prooty  clip  till 
he  sud'n'y  shifted  his  gait  an'  struck  de  follies  ob 
197 


Songs  and  Stories 

dis  wurl,  an'  den  I  seed  whut  all  dat  riggin'  vvuz 
fur,  fur  he  turned  it  into  er  toga  an'  he  looked 
lak  Jupiter  es  he  shook  de  roof  wid  his  speed  an' 
his  stride. 

"'He's  gwine  too  fast  fur  de  fus'  quarter,'  I 
sed,  es  I  sotholdin'  my  bref  ;  but  befo'  de  wurds 
wuz  out  he  seed  it,  too,  an'  he  check  up  er  leetle 
an'  he  cum  down  es  gently  es  de  summer  winds 
play — but  ergitten'  dar  all  de  time  ! — an'  den  he 
tell  us  how  all  dis  art  an'  all  dis  interlect  want 
nuffin'  ef  we  didn't  lub  God  an'  do  right  an'  lib 
pure  libes,  an'  his  voice  wuz  lak  de  music  ob  de 
winds  in  de  valley,  an'  ebrything  he  say  jes' 
peer  to  be  dat  way  an'  no  argyment — an'  all  de 
time  he  wuz  jes'  ergitten""  dar — an'  es  he  passed 
de  fus'  quarter  I  cudden't  help  it,  I  jes'  tuck  out 
my  ole  watch  an'  snapped  it,  an'  dar  it  stood — 30 
seconds,  holy  Moses  ! 

"  But  dat  didn't  wind  'im,  fer  he  started  in  de 
naixt  quarter  so  fas'  I  thout  sho'  he  gwine  fly  in 
de  air.  But  he  didn't.  He  fairly  burnt  up  de 
track  ob  sin  an'  folly  an'  littleness  an'  meanness, 
an'  he  made  de  leetle  rail  birds  ob  selfishness  fly 
to  de  woods,  an'  de  gamblers  ob  society  went  off 
to  hedge,  an'  de  touts  ob  scandal  slunk  erway, 
an'  de  drivers  ob  trick  an'  cheat  hunted  for  er- 
nuther  track,  an'  de  timers  ob  folly  throwd  erway 
dey  watch — an'  all  de  time  he  wuz  ergittin  dar— 
an'  he  nurver  teched  hissef  nur  struck  er  boot 
nur  missed  his  clip,  an'  he  made  de  ole  high  wheel 
198 


from  Tennessee 

sulky  trimble  all  over  lak  er  leaf  in  de  storm,  an' 
he  showed  how  eberbody  reap  whut  dey  sow  ; 
how  de  artis'  lib  in  art,  an'  de  po-it  in  po- 
itry,  an'  de  patriot  in  de  harts  ob  his  countrymen, 
all  arter  dey  dun  dead  an'  buried.  '  An'  O,'  he 
sed,  so  sarchin'  lak  I  see  de  folks  trimble,  '  ef 
yo'  lib  fur  de  wurl  yo'll  die  wid  de  wurl  ;  but  ef 
yo'  lib  fur  God  yo'll  nurver  die.'  An'  I  cud  see 
it  all  so  plain  an'  so  quick  an'  so  terribul  an'  so 
true  I  jes'  pulled  out  my  ole  timer  ergin  es  he 
passed  de  haf,  an'  click  !  dar  she  stood — 59}-^  ! 

"  '  By  de  horn  ob  de  Tabbernacle,'  sez  I,  'he 
can't  keep  up  dat  clip  !  Dat's  de  haf  dat  burnt 
up  Joe  Patchen  !' 

"  But  I  tell  yo',  Boss,  his  name  wuz  P'inter — 
he  had  no  noshun  ob  quittin'.  He  spun  erlong 
on  de  straight  stretches  lak  he  had  er  runnin' 
mate,  an'  yo'd  wonder  whut  hilt  'im  to  de  yearth, 
den  he  ease  up  gently  on  de  turns  ob  de  track — 
whar  he  hit  de  doubters  an'  de  'siety  an'  de  fools 
'  dat  grasp  at  de  bubbles  ob  wealth  an'  folly  on 
de  ribber,  an'  let  de  mighty  stream  wid  all  its 
depth  an'  grandeur  pass  onnoticed  to  de  ocean  ' 
— es  he  sed,  he  ease  up  dar  an'  ketch  his  bref  so 
gently  lak,  an'  sorrerful  yo'd  think  he  gwine  stop 
an'  weep  fur  'em,  an'  yo'  feel  lak  weepin'  yore- 
se'f,  fur  yore  own  follies  an'  de  follies  ob  de  wurl 
—but  all  de  time  he  wuz  gittin'  dar  ! — an'  ef  he 
did  ease  up  es  he  went  up  de  hill,  it  wuz  only  jes' 
long  enuf  ter  let  de  light  shine  down  on  him  frum 
199 


Songs  and  Stories 

heben,  an'  he  seemed  to  linger  jes'  er  minnit  in 
de  sweetnes'  ob  its  glory. 

"I  wiped  erway  a  tear  an'  snapped  my  ole 
timer  ergin — 1:30}^  !  '  Dat's  good  Baptis'  doc- 
trine,' sez  I,  '  ef  it  am  a  trifle  speedy.  Lord,  ef 
he  do  bust  de  recurd  I  hope  yo'll  gib  'im  de  At- 
lantic ocean  to  spunge  off  in — sumpin'  in  keepin' 
wid  his  own  nachur.'  An'  den  I  close  my  eyes 
gently  lak,  I  feel  so  good,  an'  I  sing  softly  to  my- 
sef  dat  good  ole  hymn,  sung  by  Moses  an'  de 
profets  so  long  ergo  : 

"  '  Baptis',  Baptis'  is  my  name 

I'm  Baptis'  till  I  die. 
I've  been  baptized  in  de  Baptis'  church, 
Gwin'ter  eat  all  de  Baptis'  pie  ! 

Hard  trials, 
Great  tribelashuns,  chilluns, 

Hard  trials, 
I'm  gwine  ter  leab  dis  wurl.' 

"  But  bless  yo',  honey,  he  wuz  jes'  playin'  on 
dem  yudder  quarters  ;  he  commenced  ter  pace 
now.  He  got  right  down  on  de  groun',  an'  dough 
he  didn't  make  no  fuss  an'  yo'  cudn't  see  er 
moshun,  nur  eben  de  spokes  ob  de  sulky,  he 
talked  lak  er  dyin'  muther  ter  her  wayward  boy. 
He  scorned  de  track  ob  dis  wurl  an'  seemed  ter 
be  pacin'  in  de  pure  air  ob  God,  an'  yit  he  didn't 
rouse  er  angry  wind,  nur  bring  out  de  loud  shouts 
frum  de  wurldy  gran'  stan',  nur  de  hoozars  ob 
200 


from  Tennessee 

victory,  nor  de  wild  frenzy  ob  delight — but  jes' 
tears,  sweet  tears.  I  cried  lak  er  baby.  I  furgot 
ter  time  'im.  De  soft  light  cum  in  frum  de  win- 
der ob  God  an'  got  inter  de  winder  ob  de  ole  man's 
hart.  De  smell  ob  de  yearthly  flowers  wuz 
turned  to  Heabenly  ones,  an'  when  his  soft, 
'pealin'  voice  died  away  an'  de  sweet  'pealin' 
music  commenced,  I  cudn't  tell  whar  de  sermin 
ended  an'  de  music  begun,  dey  run  togedder  so. 
I  sot  in  er  sort  ob  er  dream  ;  I  wanted  ter  go  ter 
Heaben  ;  I  heurd  de  white  folks  all  pass  quietly 
out ;  I  heurd  de  notes  ob  de  organ  die  erway,  but 
I  sot  in  de  cornder,  way  off  by  mysef,  an'  thanked 
God  dat  I'd  seed  cle  light  an'  heurd  de  recurd  ob 
salvation  busted." 


2OI 


Songs  and  Stories 


FIRST  MONDAY  IN  TENNESSEE. 

LAST  Monday  was  "First  Monday"  in  Ten- 
nessee, and  if  you  have  ever  been  in  a 
Tennessee  town  on  that  eventful  day  in  April, 
you  will  know  what  it  means  without  any  further 
description.  I  hope  you  have,  because  it  cannot 
be  accurately  described  except  by  sight — and  the 
looker-on,  to  do  it  justice,  should  have  as  many 
eyes  lying  around  loose  upon  him,  and  decking 
his  terminal  facilities,  as  the  famous  Argus  of  old. 
For  this  is  the  day  of  the  year  to  the  average 
citizen  of  the  Volunteer  State.  On  that  day, 
every  owner  of  a  lordly  stallion,  every  obstreper- 
ous breeder  of  a  dulcet-toned  jack,  every  proud 
possessor  of  a  cantankerous  bull  with  clay  on  his 
horns  and  cockleburs  in  his  tail  (I  am  referring 
to  the  bull,  of  course)  is  expected  to  be  out  with 
his  family  and  his  friends,  to  show  the  kind  of  live 
stock  on  which  he  has  pinned  his  faith.  And 
they  are  all  there. 

Tennessee  was  admitted  into  the  Union  June 
i,  1796,  and,  so  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  learn, 
202 


from  Tennessee 

this  time-honored  day  was  admitted  with  her. 
In  fact,  I  think  it  was  tacitly  understood  at  the 
time,  that,  whether  the  state  obtained  certain 
representatives  in  Congress  or  not,  whether  the 
boundary  ended  with  the  Mississippi  or  the  Ten- 
nessee, whether  the  Indian  lands  should  be 
bought  up  or  not,  all  of  these  might  be  decided  as 
the  National  Congress  should  decree  ;  but  if 
"First  Monday"  couldn't  come  in,  in  the  lan- 
guage of  old  Hickory,  "  By  the  eternal,  boys, 
we'll  stay  out  of  the  little  old  Union  till  she  grows 
big  enough  to  take  in  our  First  Monday."  But, 
happily,  no  opposition  was  offered,  and  to-day 
Tennesseans  would  fight  for  "First  Monday" 
quicker  than  they  would  for  the  privilege  of  brew- 
ing the  mountain  corn  juice  under  the  shadowy 
cliffs  of  the  Big  Smoky. 

For  what,  indeed,  would  life  be  worth  to  the 
horse-loving  Tennessean,  if  deprived  of  the  privi- 
lege of  showing  off,  on  the  first  Monday  of  each 
April,  his  pacing  stallion,  decked  with  enough  red 
blankets  to  cover  the  nakedness  of  darkest  Africa, 
and  with  halter  and  reins  sufficiently  strong  to 
anchor  a  man-of-war  at  sea  ?  Bonaparte,  cross- 
ing the  Alps  on  his  restless  war-horse  (as  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  it  was  a  mule,  the  chiefest  product 
of  middle  Tennessee,  but  I  use  "restless  war- 
horse  "  for  poetical  effect),  and  looking  down 
upon  the  plains  of  Italy,  was  not  so  proud  and 
happy  as  is  the  average  Tennessean  in  the  horse 
203 


Songs  and  Stories 

parade  around  the  Court  House  square,  holding 
his  mettlesome  roan  pacer  in  check  and  proudly 
proclaiming  to  the  gaping  crowd  around  him  : 
"Yes,  boys,  this  is  a  Tom  Hal  !" 

"First  Monday  "  is  founded  on  a  simple  and 
beautiful  custom  so  old  that  its  origin  is  lost  in  the 
haze  of  those  who  came  first  over  the  mountains 
to  settle  in  the  beautiful  Wautaga  valley.  I  have 
taken  great  pains  to  look  up  this  matter  and  get 
at  the  origin  of  it.  And  you  will  never  guess, 
gentle  reader,  how  it  really  started.  Be  not  sur- 
prised, then,  when  I  solemnly  proclaim  to  you 
that  the  festive  ground-hog  is  the  father  of  the 
whole  business — the  ground-hog  with  his  incom- 
parable weather  bureau  department ! 

"Pray  explain  yourself,"  I  hear  you  say. 
"  How  could  so  simple  an  animal  as  a  ground-hog 
originate  such  a  time-honored  custom  as  an  an- 
nual stock  parade  on  '  First  Monday  ?'  ' 

It  is  simple  enough.  To  begin  with,  Tennes- 
see has  always  banked  on  the  ground-hog  as  a 
weather  prophet — the  Tennessee  Ground-Hog 
Weather  Department  is  far  older  than  Uncle 
Sam's,  and  I  might  as  well  add,  far  more  reliable. 
In  the  Tennessee  department  the  ground-hog  is 
the  chief  of  the  bureau  ;  he  makes  but  one 
prophecy  a  year  and  he  never  misses  it ;  whereas 
the  bureau  at  Washington  makes  one  every  day 
and  generally  retire's  at  night  with  the  sin  of  Ana- 
nias tacked  to  its  official  skirts,  predicting  rain  on 
204 


from  Tennessee 

the  threshold  of  a  Pharaoh  famine,  and  prepar- 
ing us  for  a  "long,  dry  drought "  about  the  time 
the  heavens  declare  the  curtain  will  now  arise  on 
the  Noah  and  the  Ark  act. 

But  what  about  the  ground-hog  ?  It  is  plain 
enough.  On  the  second  day  of  February  he 
emerges  from  his  hole  in  the  ground  to  see  if  he 
can  cast  a  shadow.  If  he  can  cast  a  shadow  he 
solemnly  goes  back  into  his  hole  to  remain  six 
full  weeks — which  is  his  way  of  declaring  that 

J  O 

"bad  weather  and  hell  ginerally  is  g  winter  be  to 
pay  till  de  fuss  Monday  in  April."  But  if  the  sky 
be  cloudy  that  second  day  of  February  when  he 
emerges,  and  he  cannot  cast  a  shadow,  the  official 
declaration  goes  forth  that  an  early  spring  and 
bright  days  are  to  follow.  Now  do  not  jump  at 
the  conclusion,  kind  reader,  that  the  Tennessee 
ground-hog  ever  gets  so  poor  that  he  cannot  cast 
a  shadow  if  the  sun  be  shining.  Far  be  it  from 
my  intention  to  intimate  any  such  thing.  The 
Tennessee  ground-hog,  like  everything  else  in 
this  hog  and  hominy  state,  is  abundantly  able  to 
cast  any  number  of  shadows.  The  term  is  used 
metaphorically,  and  is  but  another  way  of  saying 
that  the  ground-hog  emerges  from  his  hole  to  see 
whether  or  not  the  sun  is  shining. 

Now,  if  the  sun  be  shining  on  that  second  day 

of  February,  as  aforesaid,  he  goes   back  into  his 

hole   to    remain  there  for   six    long  weeks,  and 

nothing  under  heaven  but  an  earthquake  with  a 

205 


Songs  and  Stories 

geyser  attachment  can  get  him  out.  There  he 
will  remain  though  the  heavens  fall,  or  his 
mother-in-law  pays  him  a  visit.  And  all  the  men, 
women  and  children  in  Tennessee  accept  his 
decision  and  prepare  to  keep  on  their  winter  flan- 
nels as  per  order  of  this  absolutely  reliable 
authority.  Was  ever  anything  more  simple  and 
plain  and  absolutely  inexpensive  ?  And  the 
beauty  of  it  is,  it  has  never  been  known  to  lie- 
it  is  truth  itself,  decked  in  homespun  and  a  wool 
hat  ;  it  is  Washington  with  a  bible  in  one  hand 
and  a  pair  of  hatchets  in  the  other.  We  com- 
mend it  to  the  department  at  Washington  ! 

But  let  us  proceed  with  the  research  that 
brought  us  up  to  the  origin  of  "  First  Monday." 
The  connecting  link  is  plain  enough.  After  con- 
sulting many  ancient  volumes,  we  have  dis- 
covered that  originally,  in  the  early  history  of  the 
state,  the  First  Monday  in  April,  a  day  now  en- 
tirely devoted  to  the  display  of  live  stock,  was  a 
kind  of  feast  day  in  the  temple  of  Ground-Hog- 
ium,  celebrated  in  honor  of  the  termination  of  the 
Ground-Hog's  potent  prophecy.  As  time  went 
on  and  people  began  to  use  the  pacing  horse  as  a 
means  of  reaching  the  county  site  to  participate 
in  the  festivities,  great  interest  began  to  be  man- 
ifested by  those  who  were  bold  enough  to  "  ride 
a  critter  "  (when  they  might  just  as  well  walk) 
in  the  various  animals  collected  in  the  town.  This 
interest  gradually  grew,  strengthened  by  a  horse 
206 


from  Tennessee 

race  now  and  then,  and  sustained  by  the  lauda- 
ble desire  in  the  breast  of  every  patriotic  Tennes- 
sean  to  see  that  his  family  relic  of  a  horse,  afflicted 
with  every  disease  from  Bright's  to  "that  tired 
feeling,"  died  the  property  of  some  unsophisti- 
cated countryman.  In  this  way  the  custom  was 
gradually  changed  from  Ground-Hog  worship  to 
horse  swapping,  from  a  religious  festival  to  the 
intricate  diplomacy  of  lying  about  one's  horse. 
And  so  it  remains  to  this  day. 

How  often  does  history  repeat  itself.  The 
Druidical  worship  of  our  old  forefathers  in  the 
woods  of  Britain  was  the  forerunner  of  the  true 
worship  of  to-day  ;  and  from  the  woods  of  Ten- 
nessee, around  the  sacred  temple  of  the  priestly 
Ground-Hog  has  emanated  the  beautiful  custom 
of  "First  Monday." 

On  the  day  in  question,  the  pikes  are  fairly 
alive  with  folks,  peoples,  horses,  jacks  and  nig- 
gers. Observe  the  order  in  which  I  name  these, 
kind  reader  ;  for  that  order  is  the  order  in  which 
they  stand  socially  in  Tennessee.  Observe  also, 
if  you  please,  that  I  make  a  distinction  between 
peoples  and  folks— folks  being  those  who  own  a 
pacing  horse  and  are  able  to  drive  or  ride  to  town  ; 
while  peoples  are  merely  common  plugs  who  must 
walk.  Peoples  are  further  divided,  1  might  as 
well  tell, — because  the  distinction  is  quite  import- 
ant in  Tennessee — into  three  classes  :  those  who 
are  able  to  wear  shoes  and  stockings,  those  who 
207 


Songs  and  Stories 

have  shoes  but  no  stockings,  and  those  who  go 
barefooted.  You  may  think  this  is  foolish  and 
unnecessary  distinction,  but  allow  me  to  inform 
you  it  is  based  on  one  of  the  most  beautiful  cus- 
toms of  the  unwritten  law  of  Middle  Tennessee 
and  one  which  is  very  closely  observed  in  the 
state.  For,  when  "all  hands"  have  reached 
the  classic  town  of  Columbia,  for  instance,  their 
first  duty  is  to  repair  to  the  nearest  bar  for  a 
drink,  and  here  it  is  that  the  distinction  between 
the  folks  and  the'  three  classes  of  peoples  is  so 
nicely  drawn.  When  a  portly  gentleman  of  the 
first  class  walks  in,  his  face  shining  behind  a 
silver  grey  mustache,  no  question  is  asked,  but 
the  best  in  the  house  is  set  up.  He's  folks.  But 
when  one  of  the  other  class  walks  in,  the  bar- 
keeper peeps  over  the  counter  to  observe  his  foot 
gear.  If  he  has  on  shoes  and  stockings,  the  bar- 
keeper knows  his  purse  will  stand  Lincoln 
County's  Medium  ;  if  he  has  on  shoes  but  no 
stockings,  apple  brandy  from  the  county  of  War- 
ren, smelling  of  Tam  O'Shanter's  midnight  ride, 
is  set  out ;  but  if,  in  looking  over  the  counter, 
the  barkeeper's  eyes  meet  the  sprawling  flabbi- 
ness  of  two  po'-white  feet,  bust-head  at  five  cents 
a  glass  is  what  he  wants.  In  no  case  is  any 
question  asked  except,  "How  are  you  shod, 
partner  ?" 

Was  ever  anything  more  simple  ? 

And  so  they  come  on  "First  Monday," — all 
208 


from  Tennessee 

bound  for  Columbia.  The  country  cousin  rides 
his  pacing  stallion  with  a  darkey  bringing  up  the 
rear  leading  an  ambling  ass  and  interrupting  his 
assship's  repeated  endeavors  to  keehonk,  kee- 
honk  every  now  and  then  by  a  vigorous  jerking 
of  his  bit,  much  to  the  disgust  of  that  classic 
animal.  Two  young  bucks  fly  by  in  a  buck- 
board  drawn  by  a  slick  pacer  that  has  given 
everybody's  team  the  dust  since  they  left  Spring 
Hill. 

"  Say,  nigger,  whose  jack  is  that  ?"  they  yell 
out  as  they  pass. 

"  Captain  Jackson,  sah,"  is  the  answer  amid  a 
display  of  ivory — caused  by  the  implied  compli- 
ment to  his  charge. 

"Fine  feller,"  they  shout  back,  "we're  fur 
him  for  the  legislature  "—but  whether  they 
mean  the  ass  or  the  master,  deponent  sayeth 
not,  merely  remarking  that,  so  far  as  the  person- 
ality of  the  Tennessee  legislature  is  concerned,  it 
is  "  a  difference  without  a  distinction." 

They  are  all  there,  "  goin'  to  Columbia  !" 

Every  old  lady  who  has  a  hank  of  yarn  for  sale, 
is  there.  Every  pretty  girl,  showing  unmistak- 
able evidence  of  being  fixed  up  for  the  occasion, 
with  too  much  powder  over  her  natural  roses  and 
a  well -I -don 't-f  eel -exactly -kinder-easy -in -these- 
stays  kind  of  look,  is  there.  Every  urchin  who 
can  bring  a  dozen  eggs  in  his  hat  and  his  pockets, 
is  there.  All  from  the  rich  farmer  behind  his 
J4  209 


Songs  and  Stories 

spanking  surrey  team,  to  the  old  darkey  on  his 
load  of  stove  wood  ;  from  the  well-to-do  fanner 
with  his  wife  and  happy  children,  the  latter  look- 
ing a  little  unnatural  in  the  solemnity  that  has 
come  over  them  by  reason  of  the  startling,  novel 
and  astonishing  fact  that  they,  too,  are  at  last 
"goin'  to  Columbia,"  to  the  poor  cropper  on  his 
mule — they  are  all  in  the  procession  !  The  man 
with  his  patent ;  the  officer  with  his  papers  ;  that 
most  detested  of  living  men,  the  back-tax  col- 
lector ;  the  man  who  wants  to  hire  ;  the  book 
agent ;  the  "  nigger  "  with  a  grin  on  his  face  and 
game  rooster  under  his  arm — they  are  all  there, 
"  gwine  to  Columbia."  On  the  square  all  is 
hustle,  stir,  squeaking,  snorting,  cackling,  flying, 
braying,  jostling,  arguing. 

But  allow  me  to  digress  right  here,  and  ex- 
plain to  you  what  "the  square  "  means.  There 
are  two  kinds  of  "squares"  in  Tennessee — 
"Square"  Jones  and  the  Court  House  square. 
The  latter  is  the  square  I  refer  to.  It  is  really 
but  the  meeting  of  four  broad  streets,  around  the 
temple  of  justice,  where  all  the  trade  and  traffick- 
ing is  done.  In  Columbia  this  temple  of  justice 
is  a  most  ancient  and  dilapidated  structure,  built 
with  so  little  regard  for  architectural  rules  that  the 
oldest  inhabitant  has  never  yet  been  able  to  tell 
which  one  of  its  sides  was  intended  for  the  front ; 
but  as  it  was  in  this  building  that  Andrew  Jack- 
son stirred  his  partisans,  and  James  K.  Polk  was 

2IO 


from  Tennessee 

\vont  to  practice  law,  the  citizens  of  the  county 
would  not  exchange  it  for  a  duplication  of  the 
classic  Parthenon.  Around  it  they  assemble  to 
barter,  to  trade  and  to  swap  horses.  Now,  when 
people  assemble  to  swap  horses,  you  know  what 
follows.  And  why  they  should  have  selected 
their  temple  of  justice  around  which  to  do  their 
lying,  is  more  than  I  can  tell.  My  private  opinion 
is  that  the  horny-fisted  horse  swapper  believed 
he  had  as  much  right  to  lie  around  the  ground 
floor  of  the  temple  as  the  lawyer  had  on  the  sec- 
ond floor. 

A  big  fellow  with  a  catfish  mouth,  chin  whisk- 
ers and  a  bald  head  is  mounted  on  a  wagon 
preaching  free  salvation  to  a  crowd  that  looks 
like  they  thought  it  was  a  mighty  long  time 
between  drinks  ;  two  darkies  have  met  on  a  cor- 
ner and  are  discussing  the  efficacy  of  baptism, 
while  numbers  of  their  dusky  partisans,  standing 
around,  now  and  then  exclaim,  "  Dat's  de  truf, 
amen  !"  A  man  rushes  to  a  door  at  a  corner 
of  the  Square  and  rings  vigorously  a  big  dinner 
bell.  It  is  a  sign  that  he  wants  to  feed  them  all 
at  his  restaurant.  There  are  four  corners  to 
every  square,  and  soon  a  bell  is  clanging  at  each 
of  the  other  three  corners,  to  let  the  world  know 
the  first  fellow  hadn't  all  the  dinner. 

The  parade  of  live  stock  is  now  formed  and 
comes  down  the  road — a  long  line  of  glistening 
flanks,  arching  necks,  prancing  steps,  mincing 

211 


Songs  and  Stories 

gaits,  whinnies,  nickers,  snorts,  bellows  and 
brays  in  semi-hemi-demi-quavers,  beginning  with 
Brown  Hal  and  Duplex,  and  ending  with  Plum- 
mer  Webster  and  Tax  Payer. 

They  are  all  there — "  gwine  to  Columbia." 
A  twenty-foot  track  is  made  in  the  living  crowd 
around  the  Court  House  square  and  half  a  hun- 
dred flying  pacers  are  showing  their  gaits,  while 
the  chancellor  leaves  his  bench  and  the  lawyers 
their  cases  to  look  out  of  the  windows.  Across 
the  street  a  bell  is  ringing  at  a  store,  and  proclaims 
that  the  ladies  of  a  certain  church  are  giving  a 
lunch  to  pay  off  the  church  debt ;  an  auctioneer 
is  howling  away,  trying  to  sell  a  ten-dollar  buggy 
for  twenty-five  dollars  ;  a  man  with  a  patent 
blacking,  warranted  to  shine  forever,  is  blacking 
the  boots  of  all  who  will  come  to  his  stand  ;  a  big 
jack  brays  in  your  ear  while  you  are  looking  at 
a  dog  fight  under  a  wagon  ;  an  apple  wagon, 
all  the  way  from  the  "State  of  Lawrence,"  is 
selling  the  rosy  fruit  left  and  right. 

Elbow  your  way  through  the  crowd  on  the 
square  and  you  will  laugh  at  the  fragments  of 
conversation  you  hear  as  you  pass — "  No,  no,  no, 
the  wheat  crop's  boun' ter  be  a  failure" — "Is 
Sally  raelly  done  married  at  last?  Who — " 
"  Fine  as  he  kin  be — sound  in  wind,  limb  an'  eye 
—fust  dam  by  Tom  Hal,  second  dam  by  Pinter's 
Slasher—  "  Git  out,  nigger  ;  who  is  you, 
enny  how  ?"  "  ItecJioiik,  keelwnk,  kcchonk,  keehee, 

212 


from  Tennessee 

keehee,  keehee-e-eow  /"     "  No,  no,  Majah,  the  fun- 
damental principles  of  the  Democratic  party— 
"  Coin',  goin',  gone— sold  fur  twenty-five  cents 
to   the   red-headed    gentleman   with   a  wart   on 
his—" 

You  never  stop  to  learn  where  the  wart  is,  for 
as  you  pass  your  attention  is  attracted  to  a  vacant 
lot  where  a  darkey  is  selling,  to  those  who  have 
money  to  buy,  a  cart  load  of  Duck  river  catfish 
and  buffalo,  while  behind  the  cart,  in  the  vacant 
lot,  a  negro  dance  is  in  full  swing.  You  stop  to 
listen,  for  the  fiddler,  inspired  by  the  music  of  his 
fiddle  and  the  muse  of  inspiration,  has  rhymed  in 
his  calls  to  music,  and,  keeping  time  with  his  feet 
to  the  flying  bow,  sings  out  in  his  peculiar  chant : 

Great  big  fat  man  down  in  de  corne. 
Dance  to  de  gal  wid  de  blue  dress  on  her ; 
You  little  bit  er  feller  widout  eny  vest 
Dance  to  de  gal  in  de  caliker  dress. 
Git  up,  Jake,  an'  turn  your  partner, 
Shake  dem  feet  as  you  kno'  you  'orter ; 
You  little  red  nigger  wid  de  busted  back 
Git  up  an'  gin  us  de  "  chicken  rack." 
All  hands  round — O,  step  lite,  ladies, 
Don't  fling  yer  feet  so  fur  in  de  shadies  ; 
Come,  you  one-eyed  nigger,  fling 
Dem  feet  an'  gib  us  de  "  pigeon  wing." 
Such  is  a  faint  idea  of  "First  Monday  in  Ten- 
nessee." 

213 


Songs  and  Stories 


YESTERDAY. 

THE  old  man  tottered  out  to  the  pasture.  He 
was  eighty  years  old. 

"How  difficult  it  is  for  me  to  walk  now, "he 
said,  as  he  shuffled  unsteadily  along,  "and  how 
it  tires  me  to  go  but  to  the  pasture  gate  !  And 
where,"  he  said,  as  he  turned  his  whole  body 
feebly  around  to  look  at  an  object  behind — as  old 
age  is  wont  to  do  when  the  muscles  have  become 
stiffened  in  the  neck — "  and  where  are  the  blue 
hills  I  used  to  see  over  there  where  the  clouds  and 
the  sunset  loved  to  linger,  and  the  gray  mists  rose 
from  the  valleys  like  the  breath  of  day  to  the 
skies  above  ?  Are  they  there  yet  ?  I  cannot 
see  them." 

"They  are  all  there,  grandpa,"  said  the  little 
boy  who  accompanied  him.  "They  reach  all 
around  and  around  and  around,  and  they  are 
brown  here,"  said  he,  pointing  with  an  emphatic 
finger,  "and  blue  yonder,  and  bluer  further  on, 
and,  yes — further  still — O,  I  can't  tell  whether 
it's  clouds  or  hills,  they  run  together  so!  But, 
O,  grandpa,  1  know  that  tree  we  just  can  see  on 
214 


from  Tennessee 

top  of  that  far,  far  away  hill  !  That's  Grundy's 
big  poplar,  and  I  went  there  once  and  saw  a  wild 
pigeon's  nest  on  the  first  limb,  and  I  played  in 
the  branch  that  ran  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  and  I 
brought  home  wild  grapes  !  O,  grandpa,"  glee- 
fully, "  let's  run  over  there  now  and  see  if 
they  are  all  there,  and  have  some  fun  !  Do, 
grandpa  !" 

The  old  man  sighed  and  shuffled  feebly  along. 

"Alas!"  he  said.  "But  yesterday  I  went 
there  myself,  and  went  with  my  mother,  and  I 
saw  the  bird's  nest  and  played  in  the  brook,  and 
my  mother  was  beautiful  and  happy.  That  was 
yesterday — only  yesterday.  To-day  I  feel  tired. 
To-morrow  I  shall  rest." 

He  reached  the  bars.  A  horse  came  up  to  the 
fence.  He  was  sightless,  and  his  sunken  back 
indicated  extreme  age.  The  old  man  put  out  his 
hand  over  the  bars  to  rub  the  horse's  nose,  but 
the  strained  position  made  his  fingers  dance  un- 
certainly over  the  animal's  face,  and  he  drew  back 
his  hand  because  he  could  not  hold  his  arm  still. 

"What  horse  is  this  ?"  he  asked. 

"Why,  grandpa!  Don't  you  know  Old 
Whip  ?  "  said  the  boy. 

The  old  man  looked  hurt.  "Old  Whip,"  he 
repeated,  absently.  "  Old  Whip.  Why,  yes- 
terday, only  yesterday,  I  called  him  Whip- 
Young  Whip.  And  I  stood  right  here  at  these 
bars  and  caught  him  and  put  your  grandmother's 
2I5 


Songs  and  Stories 

saddle  on  him — she  was  forty  then  and  hand- 
some, and  your  mother  was  five,  with  eyes  like 
yours — and  they  rode  Young  Whip,  and  I  rode 
by  their  side,  and  I  laughed  in  my  strength  and 
happiness,  and  we  rode  to  the  upper  place  and 
gathered  apples  from  the  orchard,  and  picnicked 
in  the  woods  and  rode  back  in  the  evening,  and  I 
kissed  them  both  and  lifted  them  from  the  saddle 
and  turned  Whip  in  here  only  yesterday  evening. 
But  one  night  has  passed— but  one." 

The  little  boy  looked  puzzled.  "  Why,  grandpa, 
mother  died  when  I  was  a  baby.  And  grandma 
— I  never  saw  her.  That  couldn't  have  been 
yesterday  !" 

"Yes,  yesterday,  my  son — yesterday — be- 
cause I  have  forgotten  all  else  that  came  between 
it  and  to-day.  It  was  yesterday — yesterday,  for 
I  remember  it.  Yesterday,  twenty-five  years 
ago  !  Men  time  things  wrong,  my  son.  Our 
real  time  is  from  memory  to  memory — from  hap- 
piness to  happiness.  But  let  us  go  in.  I  want  to 
kiss  my  wife  and  the  baby.  I  want  to  kiss  them 
to-day,  for  to-morrow  I  shall  rest — yes,  we  shall 
all  rest." 

And  the  little  boy  sadly  led  him  in. 


216 


from  Tennessee 


THE  JULIET  OF  THE  GRASSES. 

I  AM  almost  afraid  to  tell  you  people  how  beau- 
tiful the  world  is  down  here  now,  for  fear 
you  will  not  ;believe  it.  If  I  had  lived  in  the  age 
of  the  Aryan  fire  worshipers,  or  the  Chaldean 
star  worshipers,  or  the  Greek  and  Roman  wind 
and  sun  and  cloud  and  hero  worshipers,  I  would 
not  have  worshiped  any  of  these  things  ;  but,  in 
ignorance  of  the  true  God,  I  think  I  would  have 
knelt  down  and  kissed  the  grass.  Blue  grass 
comes  nearer  to  God  than  anything  in  the  world. 
The  sun  is  too  bright  and  the  stars  are  too  far  off 
and  the  wind  and  clouds  too  uncertain  and  intangi- 
ble ;  but  grass,  sweet  blue-grass  is  with  us,  and 
soothes  the  eye  as  far  as  we  can  see,  and  rests 
the  heart  and  the  brain,  and  says,  as  plain  as 
language  can  say  it:  "  Look  at  me,  for  I  am  a 
type  of  immortality."  It  is  so  natural  and  yet  so 
grand,  so  heart-stirring  and  yet  so  soothing,  so 
simple  and  yet  so  beautiful. 

There  are  only  two  things  in  the  world  that 
hurt  me  worse  than  to  see  little  children  suffer: 
217 


Songs  and  Stories 

one  is  to  see  some  ruthless  fool  plow  up  a  grass 
lot ;  the  other  is  to  see  the  same  person  cut  down 
a  tree.  I  almost  hate  the  man  that  will  wantonly 
do  these  things. 

For  the  tree  seems  to  me  to  be  endowed  with 
a  personality  and  a  soul.  Some,  I  know,  are 
bright  and  joyous,  and  love  to  live  and  would 
consort  with  their  kind  ;  while  others  are  sad  and 
lonely  and  take  life  hard.  And  the  grass — well, 
it  is  a  mighty  myriad  army  of  little  green  peoples 
who  love  to  grow  and  frolic  and  look  pretty  and 
do  good.  You  may  not  know  it,  but  it  is  ! 

O,  we  have  just  begun  to  live  in  this  world. 
We  are  in  our  very  infancy — -a  lot  of  thick-headed, 
bad-tempered,  selfish  little  apes  who  think  we 
know  it  all,  and  that  we  are  great  and  wise  and 
are  living  as  God  intended  us  to  live.  But  if 
we  could  only  look  ahead  and  see  what  the  true 
race  is  going  to  be  a  million  years  hence  !  We 
will  be  less  than  the  Cliff  Dwellers  to  them. 
They  will  have  stepped  along  to  infinite  heights 
over  generations  of  progress,  and  do  you  know 
what  I  believe  the  great  characteristic  of  the 
perfect  man  will  be  ?  He  will  recognize  life 
wherever  he  sees  it— in  stone,  in  tree,  in  grass, 
bird,  animal  and  man.  All  things  will  be  alive 
to  him,  and  he  will  respect  every  poor  little  life 
that  lives,  and  the  rights  of  every  little  insignifi- 
cant thing  which  we  Ape-men  now  crush  beneath 
our  feet.  And  he  will  love  everything  that  God 
218 


from  Tennessee 

has  made,  and  will  lie  down  with  the  grass,  and 
will  kiss  the  flowers  as  he  would  children,  and 
will  lean  on  the  tree  for  support  as  he  would  a 
strong  brother.  And  as  for  taking  a  human  life, 
or  thinking  an  evil  thought,  it  will  have  been  bred 
out  of  him  long  ago  ! 

I  would  not  like  to  live  in  a  country  where  the 
blue  grass  did  not  grow.  Somehow  or  other  I 
have  begun  to  associate  it  with  the  idea  of  divine 
good  will — that  God  has  sent  it  as  a  special  sign 
of  His  favor  and  esteem,  and  that  those  unfor- 
tunate countries  where  it  does  not  grow,  while 
not  exactly  under  the  ban  of  His  displeasure,  yet 
do  they  stand  in  a  kind  of  Esau,  as  compared  to 
Jacob,  relationship  with  Him.  For  that  reason  I 
dislike  to  see  it  plowed  up,  and  when  I  see  the 
cold  steel  going  through  its  shimmering  sod,  and 
turning  the  long,  black  furrows  up  where  heav- 
en's own  carpet  lay  before,  I  feel  as  if  it  is  burying 
a  thousand  little  fairy  friends  I  knew  and  loved. 

Perhaps  another  reason  for  my  love  of  it  is  that 
intuitive  knowledge  that  tells  me,  when  I  see  it  in 
abundance,  deep  and  rich  in  the  valleys  and 
changing  to  brighter  tint  on  the  swelling  hillsides, 
that  there  shall  I  see  the  race-horse  in  the  glory  of 
his  strength  and  the  pride  of  his  ancestry  ;  there 
shall  I  find  the  gentle  Jersey  and  the  splendid 
Shorthorn,  and  the  flocks  of  sheep,  startled,  per- 
haps, at  our  approach,  and  moving  like  a  white 
billow  across  a  sea  of  green  and  emerald.  To 
219 


Songs  and  Stories 

me,  then,  it  has  come  to  represent  the  banner  of 
the  live-stock  industry;  the  soul  of  speed;  the 
coloring  that  gives  the  butter  its  hue,  and  theariel 
spirit  that  rollicks  in  the  contented  cud  of  the 
Southdown  and  the  Shorthorn.  I  would  like  to 
live  always  above  it,  but  since  I  cannot  do  that, 
I  would  rather  at  last  sleep  beneath  it  than  under 
some  pile  of  clammy  stones,  that  will  one  day 
topple  over  to  let  the  lizards  know  how  dead  my 
memory  is. 

There  is  a  good  deal  of  pagan  in  our  natures 
yet,  else  why  are  we  so  quick  to  personify  ma- 
terial objects  ?  Almost  involuntarily  do  we 
ascribe  a  gender  to  the  inanimate  things  around 
us.  Sometimes  I  think  some  of  the  rules  of  our 
grammar  might  as  well  be  changed,  and,  like  the 
Latins,  let  us  call  all  things  strong  and  mighty, 
masculine,  and  those  weak  and  delicate,  feminine. 
This  would  also  give  me  a  chance  to  place  blue 
grass  where  in  my  dreams  it  has  ever  been — the 
Juliet  of  the  grasses. 

The  first  to  burst  from  the  earth  under  the 
warming  rays  of  the  early  spring  sun,  full  grown 
before  her  colder  natured  sisters  are  out  of  their 
short  frocks,  she  is  a  thing  of  joy  and  beauty,  of 
impassioned  fruition,  voluptuous  loveliness  and 
romantic  impulses.  In  love  with  nature  and  her- 
self, she  wanders  by  the  early  April  brooks  and 
rejoices  in  the  first  songs  of  the  meadow  lark  ;  a 
true  philanthropist,  in  her  tenderness  of  heart  she 
220 


from  Tennessee 

feeds  from  her  bountiful  apron  the  early  lambs,  and 
slips  a  sly  blade  or  two  into  the  mouth  of  the 
newborn  colt,  as  with  dry  humor  he  makes  a 
ridiculous  attempt  to  go  through  the  first  evolu- 
tions of  the  gait  his  nature  demands.  A  true  little 
housewife,  she  begins  at  once  to  put  her  room  to 
rights,  and  lo  !  in  a  few  days  she  covers  her 
valley  floors  with  the  softest  of  Brussels,  and 
decorates  the  hillside  walls  with  her  own  favorite 
color,  covering  even  the  bare  rocks  and  framing 
them  with  an  artist's  hand.  All  nature  is  in  love 
with  her.  The  sun  sends  his  sunbeam  children 
to  play  with  her,  and  there  they  will  be  found, 
the  warmest  and  rosiest  ;  here  the  birds  congre- 
gate to  sing  their  merriest  songs,  and  she  passes 
in  and  out  among  the  flocks  and  herds,  their 
comforter  and  lovely  shepherdess. 

Her  stoutly  built  Quaker  sisters,  the  Timothies, 
come  along  apace,  attend  strictly  to  their  own 
business,  accomplish  their  purpose  and  vanish. 
That  prolific  wench,  the  Red  Clover,  flouncing 
out  like  the  cook  in  her  Sunday  clothes,  decked 
with  many  colored  ribbons  and  smelling  of  rank 
perfume,  raises  her  yellow  and  brown  children 
and  goes  into  winter  quarters.  Those  old  Scotch 
maids,  the  Orchard  Grasses,  come  along  after 
awhile,  suspicious  and  wary,  unsociable  and  full 
of  crank's  and  whims,  and  only  satisfied  when  off 
in  knots  and  clans  to  themselves.  Of  course 
they  are  afraid  of  the  cold,  and  the  first  cool 

221 


Songs  and  Stories 

breeze  that  comes  from  the  north  sends  them 
after  their  winter  flannels,  and  they  vanish.  In 
sharp  contrast  to  them  are  the  Red  Tops,  a  lot 
of  pretty  flirts  who  flaunt  their  red  petticoats  in 
the  face  of  decent  people  and  cut  their  wild  capers 
till  arrested  by  the  mowing  blade  and  raked  in  for 
safe  keeping.  A  few  wild  ones  come  here  and 
there,  but,  like  the  banana-fed  maids  of  the  mild 
islands,  their  rotundity  is  unsubstantial,  and  their 
days  are  as  short  as  their  one  garment  of  clothing. 
Even  the  crimson  clovers  rise  up  in  serried  ranks, 
lift  their  bloody  spears  to  heaven,  fight  their 
battles  and  pass  away. 

But  what  about  the  little  Juliet  ?  She,  too, 
blooms  and  fades,  and  for  awhile  it  looks  as  if 
she  will  go  the  way  of  the  others.  Nothing  but 
her  fiery  will  and  unconquered  nerve  sustains 
her.  Shorn  of  her  locks,  demure  and  gentle,  she 
fades  under  the  hot  sun. 

"  But  death's  pale  flag  has  not  advanced 
there,"  for  lo  !  the  gentle  rains  of  the  fall  come, 
and  with  it  the  glow  of  her  maiden  beauty.  Her 
pulse  beats  fast  again  ;  she  delights  in  the  whirr 
of  the  partridge,  the  flight  of  the  wild  geese,  and 
the  flocks  of  the  blackbirds.  The  lambs  are 
grown  now,  but  come  in  again  for  her  care  and 
attention,  as  also  the  eager  cattle  and  the  stately 
mares.  And  so,  like  a  resurrected  dream  of 
spring,  she  makes  glorious  the  death  of  the  year, 
sings  the  swan-song  of  autumn,  and  hangs  her 

222 


from  Tennessee 

garlands  of  immortality  on  the  very  snow  king's 
brow.  At  last  she  sleeps  a  bit — but  just  a  little 
nap — to  wake  again  in  the  morning  of  the  year, 
a  blessing,  a  poem,  a  picture. 


223 


Songs  and  Stories 


HAL  POINTER  ON  MEMORIAL  DAY. 

T  NOTICED  that  our  old  friend,  Hal  Pointer, 
1  turned  out  on  Decoration  Day  at  Tyrone, 
Pa.,  and  honored  the  occasion  by  pacing  the  half- 
mile  track  in  2:16^,  last  half  in  1:09.  I  judge 
from  the  report  that  this  was  done  in  honor  of  the 
opening  day  of  the  association  ;  but  chiefly  in 
honor  of  the  day  itself — the  Memorial  Day  of  the 
brave  Union  dead. 

It  is  peculiarly  fitting  that  Hal  Pointer  should  do 
this,  for  around  the  home  of  his  cradle  flashed  the 
hottest  fires  of  the  Civil  War,  and  the  land  that 
gave  him  being  had  the  temper  of  its  heart  of 
steel  tried  in  the  whitest  heat  of  the  conflict.  The 
air  he  first  breathed  was  the  same  that  echoed  to 
the  shot  and  shout  of  Franklin  ;  the  water  he  first 
drank  was  tributary  to  that  which  ran  in  red 
currents  between  the  banks  of  the  "  bloody  Har- 
peth  ;"  while  the  very  grass  he  first  nibbled  was 
made  luxuriant  by  the  blood  of  the  blue  and  the 
gray.  The  same  element  of  sun  and  soil  that 
made  the  mortal  parts  of  those  that  bared  their 
224 


from  Tennessee 

bosoms  to  the  lance  of  war,  made  him  ;  and  the 
indomitable  spirit  of  his  near  ancestors  was  that 

which  carried  Forrest  and  Wheeler  on  their  reck- 
less raids.  If  there  was  ever  a  horse  which  comes 
near  representing  the  unflinching  spirit  of  the  old 
South,  that  horse  is  Hal  Pointer  ;  and  it  is  pecu- 
liarly appropriate,  to  my  mind,  that  he  should  turn 
out  on  Memorial  Day  and  lay,  in  the  twilight  of 
his  life,  the  tribute  wreaths  of  his  matchless 
courage  and  speed  on  the  grave  of  a  brave  and 
honored  enemy. 

And  why  not  ?  What  is  Prejudice  that  it 
should  claim  authority  to  teach  me  to  despise  the 
graves  of  those  who  differed  from  me  in  life — me, 
who  must  so  soon  lie  down  to  measure  graves 
with  mine  enemy  ?  What  is  Hatred  that  I  should 
allow  it  to  put  a  blind  bridle  on  me  and  ride  me 
to  the  devil  ?  What  is  Ignorance  that  it  should 
ask  me  to  sit  under  the  shadow  of  its  wing  and 
imagine  I  am  a  seer  in  the  lighted  halls  of  Wis- 
dom ?  God  made  me  free,  and  by  God's  help 
none  of  these  shall  make  me  his  slave. 

The  man  in  the  North  who  will  hate,  after  all 
these  years,  his  brave  brother  in  the  South,  is 
both  a  fool  and  a  coward  ;  and  the  man  in  the 
South  who  has  not  learned  to  forgive  and  forget, 
who  would  not  decorate  the  grave  of  a  brave 
enemy,  is  twin  brother  to  him  at  the  North. 
Perhaps  the  war  was  a  bloody  blessing.  God 
alone  knows  why  it  should  have  been.  But  out 


Songs  and  Stories 

of  it  has  come  a  cemented  Union  which,  God 
grant,  will  live  forever.  Does  the  England  of  to- 
day think  any  less  of  the  brave  Scotch  whose 
independence  and  courage  so  often  defied  them 
around  the  banners  of  Wallace  and  Bruce,  or  the 
Irish  "who  have  fought  successfully  the  battles 
of  all  the  world  save  their  own  ?"  If  she  does, 
she  must  first  erase  from  her  history  the  glorious 
achievements  of  Blenheim,  Trafalgar  and  Water- 
loo. 

1  shall  not  have  lived  in  vain  if  I  can  teach  one 
simple  lesson  to  the  North  and  one  equally  as 
simple  to  the  South.  That  lesson  is  quickly  told  : 
"  Be  charitable  ;  for  your  enemy  died  believing 
he  was  right  and  fighting  for  the  identical  principle 
involved  in  Bunker  Hill  and  Yorktown."  For, 
strange  as  it  may  seem,  the  principle  involved 
was  identical,  differing  only  in  the  manner  of  its 
application. 

When  I  hear  the  plaudit  of  a  gun  each  morning 
and  look  out  of  my  library  window  to  see  Old 
Glory  flutter  up  to  its  flagstaff  away  above  the 
tall  trees  of  the  arsenal,  to  catch  the  first  kiss 
from  the  only  light  that  is  its  equal,  my  heart 
swells  with  love  and  joy  at  its  greatness  and 
power.  I  love  it  because  it  stands  for  equal 
rights  and  equal  chance  for  all  men  ;  because  it 
has  grown  so  great  in  principle  and  so  strong  in 
might  that  it  can  say  to  the  most  arrogant  of 
tyrants  :  "  Give  your  oppressed  people  the  rights 
226 


from  Tennessee 

of  civilized  beings,"  and  he  gives  them  ;  or  to 
the  most  powerful  :  "Tread  not  on  the  toes  of 
your  helpless  little  neighbor,"  and  she  treads  not. 
Hove  it  for  all  these,  but  chiefly  because  it  is  the 
flag  of  my  own  country,,  to  the  making  of  which 
those  of  my  own  blood  and  clime  lent  no  unwill- 
ing hands. 

And  yet  when  I  look  on  my  mantel  and  see  the 
little  faded  flag  there, 

"  Representing  nothing  on  God's  earth  now 
And  naught  in  the  waters  below  it," 

nothing  except  the  blood  of  a  valorous  dead  and 
the  honesty  of  an  unflinching  devotion  to  principle 
(as  if  these  could  be  nothing)  I  cannot,  to  save  my 
life,  help  shedding  tears. 

And  so  I  live — 'twixt  a  smile  and  a  tear,  as 
Byron  hath  it — knowing  that  God  is  good  and  just, 
and  will  judge  us  all,  not  by  our  failures  or  our 
successes,  but  by  the  truthfulness  and  honesty  of 
our  purpose. 

So  pace  on,  old  Pointer,  and  in  the  sunset  of 
your  life  do  greater  deeds  of  loving  kindness  than 
you  ever  did  while  vanquishing  your  enemies  in 
the  heyday  of  your  fame — 

"  Under  the  sod  and  the  dew 

Waiting  the  Judgment  day, 
Love  and  tears  for  the  blue, 
Tears  and  love  for  the  gray." 


POEMS 


from  Tennessee 


SAM  DAVIS. 

MUCH  has  been  said  as  to  heroic  deeds  done 
on  both  sides  in  the  Civil  War.  But  here's 
one  by  a  twenty-year-old  boy  that  I  do  not  think 
has  its  equal  in  the  annals  of  any  war — at  least  I 
have  never  been  able  to  find  anything  similar  to 
it.  There  are  thousands  of  instances  of  men  who 
have  died  fearlessly  in  battle,  under  the  excite- 
ment of  the  contest,  and  numerous  examples  of 
soldiers  who  have  been  executed  rather  than 
betray  their  country  or  its  cause,  as  was  the  case 
with  the  martyr,  Nathan  Hale,  in  our  war  with 
Great  Britain.  But  I  cannot  find  where  any  one 
died  rather  than  break  his  word  to  an  enemy,  as 
did  Sam  Davis,  the  hero  of  this  short  sketch. 

In  November,  1863,  when  Gen.  Bragg  was  at 
Missionary  Ridge,  he  wished  to  secure  correct 
information  concerning  the  movements  of  the 
Federal  army  in  Middle  Tennessee,  and  to  find 
out  if  it  was  moving  from  Nashville  to  Corinth  to 
reinforce  Chattanooga.  The  duty  was  a  most 
hazardous  one,  and  four  or  five  scouts  were 
231 


Songs  and  Stories 

selected  for  the  purpose,  but  before  going  were 
told  that  the  chances  were  small  for  any  of  them 
getting  back  alive.  The  men  selected  were 
Sam  Davis,  a  twenty-year-old  boy  ;  Joshua 
Brown,  now  a  physician  in  New  York  city  ;  W. 
J.  Moore,  now  a  successful  farmer  and  horse- 
man, Columbia,  Tenn.,  and  Capt.  E.  Coleman, 
commanding  Coleman's  scouts.  Of  these,  Davis 
had  obtained  the  most  important  information. 
He  had  counted  every  regiment  and  all  the  artil- 
lery in  the  Sixteenth  corps,  found  out  that  they 
were  moving  on  Chattanooga,  and  had  in  his 
saddle  seat  full  and  complete  maps  of  the  fortifi- 
cations at  Nashville  and  other  points,  and  an 
exact  report  of  the  Federal  army  in  Tennessee. 
Mounted  on  a  superb  horse,  he  was  recklessly 
brave,  and  exposed  himself  unnecessarily  several 
times.  He  remained  over  three  days  after  he 
should  have  left,  to  see  his  sweetheart,  and  when 
chased  from  near  her  home  by  Federal  cavalry 
the  night  before  he  was  captured,  he  ran  away 
from  them  in  the  dark.  Then  turning,  he  ran 
back  on  them  again,  and,  to  demonstrate  the 
superiority  of  his  mount,  he  slapped  their  horses 
in  the  face  with  his  cap  as  he  ran  by.  The  next 
day,  while  resting  in  a  thicket,  he  was  captured 
by  the  Seventh  Kansas  cavalry. 

Gen.   G.    M.   Dodge,  the   Federal   general    in 
command    at    Pulaski,   near  which    Davis   was 
captured,  found  the  papers  in  the  saddle  seat  to 
232 


from  Tennessee 

have  been  taken  from  his  own  table,  and  correctly 
surmised  that  some  one  very  close  to  him  had 
proved  traitorous.  A  court-martial  consisting  of 
Col.  Madison  Miller,  iSth  Missouri  infantry,  Col. 
Thomas  W.  Gaines,  5oth  Missouri  infantry,  and 
Major  Lathrop,  39th  Iowa  infantry,  condemned 
Davis  to  be  hanged  ;  but  Gen.  Dodge,  who  pitied 
his  youth  and  admired  his  manliness,  and  who 
was  very  anxious  to  find  out  the  traitor  in  his 
own  camp,  offered  Davis  his  freedom  if  he  would 
tell  the  name  of  the  party  who  gave  him  the 
papers.  This,  with  great  firmness  and  dignity, 
Davis  refused  to  do.  Gen.  Dodge  says  : 

"1  took  him  into  my  private  office,  and  told  him  it 
was  a  very  serious  charge  that  was  brought  against 
him  ;  that  he  was  a  spy,  and,  from  what  1  found 
upon  his  person,  he  had  accurate  information  in 
regard  to  my  army,  and  I  must  know  how  he  ob- 
tained it.  I  told  him  that  he  was  a  young  man 
and  did  not  seem  to  realize  the  danger  he  was  in. 
Up  to  that  time  he  said  nothing  ;  but  then  he  re- 
plied, in  the  most  respectful  and  dignified  manner: 

"  '  Gen.  Dodge,  I  know  the  danger  of  my  sit- 
uation, and  am  willing  to  take  the  consequences.' 

"  I  asked  him  then  to  give  me  the  name  of  the 
person  who  gave  him  the  information  ;  that  [ 
knew  it  must  be  some  one  near  headquarters,  or 
who  had  the  confidence  of  the  officers  of  my  staff, 
and  I  repeated  that  I  must  know  the  source  from 
which  it  came.  I  insisted  that  he  should  tell  me, 
233 


Songs  and  Stories 

but  he  firmly  declined  to  do  so.  I  told  him  I 
would  have  to  call  a  court-martial  and  have  him 
tried  for  his  life,  and  from  the  proofs  we  had  they 
would  be  compelled  to  convict  him  ;  that  there 
was  no  chance  for  him  unless  he  gave  the  source 
of  his  information.  He  replied  : 

"  '  I  know  I  will  have  to  die,  but  I  will  not  tell 
where  I  got  my  information,  and  there  is  no  power 
on  earth  can  make  me  tell.  You  are  doing  your 
duty  as  a  soldier,  and  I  am  doing  mine.  If  I  have 
to  die,  I  will  do  so  feeling  I  am  doing  my  duty  to 
God  and  my  country.' 

"  I  pleaded  with  him,  and  urged  him  with  all  the 
power  I  possessed  to  give  me  some  chance  to  save 
his  life,  for  I  discovered  he  was  a  most  admirable 
young  fellow,  of  the  highest  character  and  strict- 
est integrity.  He  then  said  : 

"  '  It  is  useless  to  talk  to  me.  I  do  not  intend 
to  tell.  I  would  rather  die  than  break  my  word. 
You  can  court-martial  me,  or  do  anything  else  you 
like,  but  I  will  not  betray  the  trust  reposed  in  me.' 
He  thanked  me  for  the  interest  1  had  taken  in  him, 
and  I  sent  him  back  to  prison.  I  immediately 
called  a  court-martial  to  try  him." 

The  day  before  he  was  executed,  Davis  wrote 
the  following  letter  to  his  mother : 

Pulaski,  Giles  Co.,  Term.,  November  26,  1863. 
Dear  Mother:   Oh,  how  painful  it  is  to  write  to  you! 
I  have  got  to  die  to-morrow  morning — to  be  hanged  by  the 
Federals.    Mother,  do  not  grieve  for  me.    I  must  bid  you 
234 


from  Tennessee 

good-bye  forever.    Mother,  I  do  not  fear  to  die.    Give  my 
love  to  all.     Your  son, 

Samuel  Davis. 

Mother,  tell  the  children  all  to  be  good.  I  wish  I  could  see 
you  all  once  more,  but  1  never  will  any  more.  Mother  and 
father,  do  not  forget  me.  Think  of  me  when  I  am  dead, 
but  do  not  grieve  for  me  ;  it  will  do  no  good.  Father,  you 
can  send  after  my  remains  if  you  want  to  do  so.  They 
will  be  at  Pulaski,  Tenn.  I  will  leave  some  things,  too, 
with  the  hotel-keeper  for  you.  S.  D. 

Gen.  Dodge  became  still  more  anxious  to  save 
him  and  sent  a  lady  in  Pulaski,  an  old  friend  of 
the  boy's  mother,  to  the  prisoner  to  beg  him  to 
give  the  information  and  save  his  life.  She  says 
that  Davis  wept  and  told  her  he  would  rather  die 
than  break  his  word,  even  to  an  enemy.  She 
made  two  other  attempts  to  persuade  him,  but 
without  avail. 

On  Friday,  November  27,  Davis  was  hand- 
cuffed, placed  on  his  coffin,  and  driven  in  a  wagon 
out  to  the  suburbs  of  Pulaski,  where  a  rope  had 
been  arranged  for  the  execution.  Gen.  Dodge, 
who  was  a  most  kind-hearted  gentleman,  hoped 
he  would  weaken  at  the  last  moment  and  tell 
him  the  name  of  the  traitor  in  his  camp,  and  after 
the  rope  was  adjusted  he  begged  Davis  to  tell 
him  the  name  of  the  person  who  gave  him  the 
papers,  and  promised  then  and  there  to  liberate 
him,  give  him  his  horse,  his  side  arms,  and  a  safe 
escort  back  to  the  Confederate  lines.  Davis 
thanked  him  and  said  : 

235 


Songs  and  Stories 

"  If  I  had  a  thousand  lives,  I  would  lose  them 
all  before  I  would  betray  my  friends  or  the  con- 
fidence of  my  informer." 

He  then  gave  the  provost-marshal  some  keep- 
sakes for  his  mother  and  turned  and  said,  "  I  am 
ready.  Do  your  duty,  men." 

No  wonder  the  people  of  the  South  are  erect- 
ing a  monument  to  Sam  Davis.  Nearly  two 
thousand  dollars  have  been  subscribed,  some  of  it 
from  Gen.  Dodge,  his  staff  and  officers.  Capt. 
H.  I.  Smith,  of  Mason  City,  la.,  in  sending  his 
contribution,  wrote  : 

"  It  was  a  heart-rending,  sickening  sight  to  me, 
and  every  heart  went  out  to  him  in  sympathy 
and  sorrow,  to  see  him  sacrificed  for  an  act  of 
duty  that  he  was  ordered  to  perform  as  a  soldier, 
and  which  was  not  a  crime.  The  stern  necessi- 
ties of  grim  war  seemed  to  demand  that  an  ex- 
ample should  be  made  of  some  one,  and  fate 
decreed  that  it  should  be  Samuel  Davis.  I  don't 
know  of  a  more  noble  specimen  of  manhood  that 
could  have  been  chosen  as  a  martyr  for  the  sac- 
rifice. 1  had  nothing  to  do  with  his  capture  or 
trial,  being  then  only  a  non-commissioned  offi- 
cer of  one  of  the  regiments  in  Gen.  Sweeney's 
division  in  camp  at  Pulaski.  I  was  close  enough 
to  see  his  features  and  countenance  when  he  was 
executed.  He  was  young,  and  seemed  to  be 
possessed  of  superior  intelligence  and  manliness, 
and  when  it  was  understood  that  he  was  offered 


from  Tennessee 

life  and  liberty  if  he  would  divulge  the  name  of  the 
party  who  furnished  the  information  in  his  posses- 
sion when  captured,  and  would  not  betray  the 
sacred  trust,  none  of  us  could  help  but  admire  his 
trustworthiness  and  nobleness  of  character.  It 
was  a  fearful  test  to  be  put  to — a  young  man 
with  life  and  a  bright  future  before  him  ;  but  he 
proved  equal  to  the  test,  and  I  think  he  is  worthy 
of  a  monument  to  forever  perpetuate  his  memory, 
and  as  a  noble  specimen  of  valor  as  an  American 
soldier.  I  saw  many  of  our  hardened  and  bronze- 
visaged  veterans,  who  had  seen  much  of  carnage 
and  suffering,  draw  the  backs  of  their  rough  hands 
across  their  eyes  as  they  secretly  wiped  away 
tears.  I  think  it  was  Gen.  Sherman  who  said 
'War  is  hell,'  and  so  it  seemed  to  me  on  that 
occasion.  Everybody  was  deeply  affected. 
There  \vere  few  dry  eyes  among  those  who  were 
the  sorrowful  witnesses,  and  when  the  drop  fell 
there  was  such  a  pall  of  sadness  and  silence  that 
the  air  was  oppressive.  He  was  captured,  I  think, 
by  Lieut.  E.  B.  Spalding,  of  the  Fifty-second 
Illinois  infantry,  who  now  resides  at  Sioux  City, 
la.  I  have  heard  him  speak  in  sorrow  and  praise 
of  him,  and  that  war  and  fate  should  decree  his 
untimely  and  ignominous  death.  I  served  four 
years  in  the  war,  was  twice  wounded,  and  lost 
my  only  brother  at  the  battle  of  Shiloh,  and  be- 
lieved then,  and  do  now,  that  our  cause  was  right. 
1  have  no  animosity  against  my  former  foes,  and 
237 


Songs  and  Stories 

want  to  see  all  sectional  bitterness  wiped  out.  I 
want  no  North,  no  South,  East  or  West,  but  one 
common,  united  country,  in  which  brotherly  love 
and  loyalty  to  a  common  flag  will  prevail,  and  I 
rejoice  in  the  fact  that  both  '  Yank  '  and  '  Johnny  ' 
share  equally  in  the  benefit  of  our-victory." 

This  is  a  manly  letter,  and  Capt.  Smith  has 
struck  the  right  chord — no  South,  no  North,  no 
East,  no  West ;  and  every  example  of  loyalty 
to  duty,  every  example  of  bravery,  courage, 
devotion  and  glory,  wherever  found  between  the 
seas,  to  go,  as  this  one,  to  the  credit  of  the  Amer- 
ican soldier.  Such  sentiments,  thank  God,  have 
almost  wiped  out  the  animosities  of  the  war,  and 
the  time  will  come  when  the  heroic  deeds  of  both 
sides  will  be  the  common  property  of  the  whole 
American  people. 

SAM  DAVIS. 

"  Tell  me  his  name  and  you  are  free," 
The  General  said,  while  from  the  tree 
The  grim  rope  dangled  threat'ningly. 

The  birds  ceased  singing — happy  birds, 

That  sang  of  home  and  mother-words. 

The  sunshine  kissed  his  cheek — dear  sun  ; 

It  loves  a  life  that's  just  begun  ! 

The  very  breezes  held  their  breath 

To  watch  the  fight  'twixt  life  and  death. 

And  O,  how  calm  and  sweet  and  free 


SAM   DAVIS 
(From  the  Memorial  Statue). 


from  Tennessee 

Smiled  back  the  hills  of  Tennessee  ! 
Smiled  back  the  hills,  as  if  to  say, 
"  O,  save  your  life  for  us  to-day  !" 

"  Tell  me  his  name  and  you  are  free," 
The  General  said,  "and  I  shall  see 
You  safe  within  the  rebel  line — 
I'd  love  to  save  such  life  as  thine." 

A  tear  gleamed  down  the  ranks  of  blue — 

(The  bayonets  were  tipped  with  dew) 

Across  the  rugged  cheek  of  war 

God's  angels  rolled  a  teary  star. 

The  boy  looked  up — 'twas  this  they  heard  : 

"And  would  you  have  me  break  my  word  ?" 

A  tear  stood  in  the  General's  eye  : 
"  My  boy,  I  hate  to  see  thee  die — 
Give  me  the  traitor's  name  and  fly  !" 

Young  Davis  smiled,  as  calm  and  free 
As  he  who  walked  on  Galilee  : 
"  Had  I  a  thousand  lives  to  live, 
Had  I  a  thousand  lives  to  give, 
I'd  lose  them — nay,  I'd  gladly  die 
Before  I'd  live  one  life  a  lie  !" 
He  turned — for  not  a  soldier  stirred — 
"  Your  duty,  men — I  gave  my  word." 

The  hills  smiled  back  a  farewell  smile, 
The  breeze  sobbed  o'er  his  hair  awhile, 
The  birds  broke  out  in  glad  refrain, 
239 


Songs  and  Stories 

The  sunbeams  kissed  his  cheek  again- 
Then,  gathering  up  their  blazing  bars, 
They  shook  his  name  among  the  stars. 

O,  stars,  that  now  his  brothers  are, 
O,  sun,  his  sire  in  truth  and  light, 

Go,  tell  the  list'ning  worlds  afar 

Of  him  who  died  for  truth  and  right  ! 

For  martyr  of  all  martyrs  he 

Who  dies  to  save  an  enemy  ! 


THE  LILY  OF  FORT  CUSTER. 

AND  you  want  me  to  tell  you  the  story,  lad, 
of  the  old  horse,  Tennessee, 
The  stout  red  roan  I  rode  alone  on  the  track  of 

that  snake  Pawnee, 
The  meanest  Indian  that  ever  bit  dirt,  and  I  hope 

he  is  roasting  to-day, 
For  I  ain't  had  a  mount  that  was  any  account 

since  —     What  did  you  say  ? 
Go  on  with  the  story  ?     Why,  that's  what  I  am, 

and  I'm  going  to  tell  it  my  way  ! 
A   Hal   he   was  —  the  Indian,  you    ask  ?     Young 

man,  if  I  had  my  gun 
You'd  go  to  the  spirit  land  yourself  before  this 

here  tale  was  done. 
Three  stout  crosses  of  running  blood  —  old  Trav- 

eler, Timoleon,  Empire  — 
240 


from  Tennessee 

A  Hal  on  that  !     Aye,  there's  the  horse  the  devil 

himself  can't  tire, 
Molded  as  trim  as  a  Catling  gun  and  full  to  the 

brim  of  its  fire. 

I  raised  him  from  a  colt  myself.     My  father  gave 

him  to  me 
When   I  rode  West   with    Ouster's  men  of   the 

Seventh  Cavalry, 
Away  to  the  shade  and  the  shadow-land,  where 

the  Rockies  prop  the  sky, 
And  the  bison  herd,  like  a  powder-brown  bird, 

afar  on  the  trail  fly- 
But  we  never  flickered  in  all  that  ride,  neither 

Tennessee  nor  I. 

And  gaits  ?     There  wasn't  a  horse  in  camp  could 

go  all  the  gaits  like  him— 
Canter    and   pace   and    single-foot   and   fox-trot 

smooth  and  trim. 
He  led  the  wing  when   the   bugler  would  sing 

((  Boots  and  Saddles  '."—Away  ! 
From  sun  to  sun  there  was  never  a  run  that  he 

wasn't  in  it  to  stay— 
The  showiest  horse  on  dress  parade,  the  gamest 

in  the  fray. 

And  the  Rockies  !     O,  the  Rockies,  lad  !     God 

made  'em  to  teach  us  how 
To  look  from  earth  to  Grandeur's  birth — to  His 

own  great  beetling  brow. 


16 


241 


Songs  and  Stories 

I  never  had  seen  a  mountain,  lad  !  How  they 
thrilled  ! — how  they  loomed  on  me  ! 

Granite  and  cloud  wrapped  in  a  shroud  of  snow 
eternally, 

So  different  from  the  sweet  green  hills  of  dear  old 
Tennessee. 

Homesick  I  grew,  I  know  not  why,  when  we 
camped  in  the  far  Sioux  land  ; 

Things  were  so  solemn  and  silent  there — silent 
and  solemn  and  grand — 

And  I  longed  again  to  see  the  plain  and  the  roll- 
ing waves  of  wheat, 

And  the  low,  soft  music  of  the  grain  in  the  June 
days  rustling  sweet, 

And  the  gay  notes  of  the  mocking  bird,  where  the 
Duck  and  the  Bigby  meet. 

But  out  at  the  Fort  was  a  maiden, 

A  maiden  fair  to  see, 
And  I  fell  dead  in  love  with  her, 

And  she — with  Tennessee, 
For  she  learned  to  ride  upon  him, 

And  her  gallop  across  the  plain 
Would  make  you  think  Athena  had  come 

To  break  the  winged  horse  again. 

And  she  was  the  Captain's  daughter, 

In  rank  above  me  far 
As  above  the  fire-fly  in  the  grass 

Beams  out  the  evening  star. 

242  fc 


from  Tennessee 

But  Love — he  smiles  at  epaulets 
As  he  laughs  at  bolts  and  bar. 

With  eyes  like  the  skies  when  the  shower  is  over 
And  the  rain  drops  are  soothing  the  cheeks  of  the 

clover — 
Dear  drops  of  sympathy  all  too  soon  over  ! 

And  a  face  like  a  vase  with  two  rose-buds  in  it, 
Rose-buds  of  cheeks,  to  change  in  a  minute 
To   the   puckered-up  throat   of   a  sweet-singing 
linnet. 

And  curls  like  the  whirls  of  the  clouds,  when  the 

Day-king 

Stops  his  bold  ride  to  the  West,  ere  making 
His  bed  in  their  bank  and  his  night-goblet  taking. 

And  lips  like  the  dew-wine  he  sips  in  the  morning, 
Mistaking  her  eyes  for  the  day's  in  its  dawning, 
Mistaking  her  eyes  and  sweet  Eos'  scorning. 

And  her  soul  !     'Twas  the  goal  of  the  Angels  and 

Graces, 

Seen  in  their  face  as  they  play  in  their  races — 
The  purest  of  souls  in  the  purest  of  places. 

And  I  ? 

Followed  no  flag  but  the  blue  of  her  bonnet. 
And    1    marched    and    I    charged    by    the   white 

streamers  on  it. 

And  yet  when  she  turned  her  blue  batteries  on  me 
243 


Songs  and  Stories 

Brought  up  her  reserve  to  ride  over  and  scorn  me. 
I  was  wretched,  and  sorry  my  mother  had  borne 

me. 
And  surrendered,   I   did,  though    my  heart  was 

enraptured — 
A  prisoner,  yet  gloried  by  her  to  be  captured. 

And  she  ? 

When  she  was  certain  I'd  never  be  free 
Gave  me  her  pity  and  loved — Tennessee. 

Heydey  !     And  I  say 

But  that  is  the  way- 
Love  is  a  tyrant  that  never  grows  old. 

Bonnet  and  curl- 
Lord,  all  my  world 
Got  under  that  sheen  of  gold. 

Heydey  !     Still  I  say 

If  naught's  in  the  way 
What  glory  in  battling  for  beauty  to  love  us  ? 

Love  is  a  star, 

To  be  worshipped  afar, 
And,  like  it,  should  be  above  us. 

Heydey  !     Yet  I  say 
There's  many  a  way 

That  love  finds  his  own,  though  his  own  be 
not  waiting. 

And  lips  may  be  mute, 
And  eyes  may  refute, 
244 


from  Tennessee 

But  hearts  made  to  mate  find  a  way  for  the 

mating. 
In  our  long  ride  up  from  the  valley 

A  Pawnee  chief  we  found — 
Old  Borie-in-the-Face  they  called  him  then, 

But  now — he  is  bone-in-the-ground. 
Starving  he  was  when  we  picked  him  up, 

And  racked  with  ague  and  pain, 
But  he  taught  us  a  lesson  we'll  never  forget, 

Which  I  don't  mind  telling  again — 
The  good  Indians  live  in  the  school  books,  lad, 

The  bad  ones  all  live  on  the  plain. 

The  coyote  !     We  nursed  and  cured  him, 

And  then  he  turned  his  eyes 
To  the  Lily,  God  help  her  !  and  when  she  rode 

From  the  Fort  'neath  the  sweet  June  skies 
To  pluck  the  flowers  that  grew  on  the  plain 

(A  pony  she  rode  that  day) 
The  Pawnee  stole  the  Colonel's  horse 

And  slipped,  with  a  Sioux,  away. 
Away  on  the  track  of  the  Lily, 

Like  wolves  on  the  trail  of  a  fawn, 
Two  hours  before  a  soul  in  camp 

Knew  the  treacherous  dogs  were  gone — 
Two  hours  before  alarm's  shrill  voice 

Waked  the  echoing  sentry's  horn  ! 

Away  on  the  track  of  the  Lily,  and  they  lassoed 
her  pony  and  rode 

245 


Songs  and  Stories 

With  her  bound  in  the  saddle  and  helpless,  to 

Sitting  Bull's  band  at  the  ford- 
To  Sitting  Bull's  tent !  for  a  life  that  was  worse 

than  living  in  hell's  own  abode. 

The  alarm  gun  was  sounded,  we  rushed  through 

the  gate — the  Captain,  the  Corporal,  and  1— 
The  moon  had  just  risen,  a  trifle  too  late  to  see 

the  sun  sink  in  the  sky. 
The  Captain  looked  black  as  the  charger  he  rode, 

the  Corporal  sat  grim  on  his  grey, 
While  1  ? — just  patted  old  Tennessee's  neck  and 

he  struck  that  long  gallop — to  stay. 

We  struck  the  trail  quickly  ;  'twas  plain  as  could 

be,  the  pony's  flat  track  in  the  sand. 
And  then  it  was  headed  as  straight  as  a  bee  to  the 

North,  for  the  Sioux's  bloody  band. 
A  mile  further  on  it  turned  slight  to  the  right — the 

Captain  sprang  quick  to  the  ground, 
For  there  in  the  path  was  a  sun-bonnet  bright — 

he  kissed  it ;  then,  turning  around, 

We  saw  the  tears  glitter  and  felt  kind  o'  moist 

around  our  own  hardened  eyes, 
Then  stood  with  bowed  heads  for  a  moment  while 

each  breathed  a  silent  prayer  up  to  the  skies. 
'Twas  the  work  of  a  moment  to  tighten  our  girths, 

cut  loose  the  throat-latch  and  curb-chain, 
Then  strike  for  the  ford — fifty  good  miles  away 

across  the  wide  stretch  of  the  plain. 
246 


from  Tennessee 

"To  the  ford  !"  cried  the  father,  and  his  rowel 

shot  swift  as  a  star  in  the  flank  of  his  black. 
"  To  the  ford  !    There  is  no  other  place  they  can 

cross.     To  the  ford  !     See  the  course  of  the 

track  ! 
Two  hours  the  start !    Great  God  give  us  speed," 

as  the  black  went  away  like  the  wind. 
"  Too  fast !"  1  called  out,  but  he  never  did  heed  ; 

already  he'd  left  us  behind. 

"Now,  Corporal,"    I  said,   "we  will  test  your 

grey's   grit ;    'tis   a   ride   that   the   stoutest 

might  shun." 
And  I  braced  myself  firm,  held  steady  the  bit, 

with  Tennessee  struggling  to  run, 
But  I  gave  not  his  head,  for  well  did  I  know  not 

a  horse  in  the  world  could  stand 
Fifty  miles  of  a  race  at  a  heart-killing  pace  in  the 

alkali  dust  of  that  land. 

Galloping,  galloping,  galloping  on, 

Out  in  the  moonlight,  galloping  on. 
No  word  did  we  speak,  no  sound  did  we  heed 
But  the  low,  muffled  beat  of  the  galloping  steed. 
The  grey,  circling  dust  rose  in  pillars  and  spread 
Like  the  ghost  of  a  cloud  in  the  moonlight  o'er- 

head  ; 
And  the  sage-bush  was  plated  with  white  in  the 

light 

As  we  raced,  like  a  running  team,  into  the  night. 
247 


Songs  and  Stories 

Beyond  us,  the  peak  of  a  towering  cone, 
Fifty  good  miles  away,  on  the  broad  Yellowstone, 
Was  our  snow-covered  goal,  in    the    moon-bla- 
zoned air, 
And  we  headed  full  straight  for  the  ford  that  was 

there. 

Our  horses  pulled  hard  on  the  bit,  for  the  dash 
Was  a  frolic  to  them  in  the  hoof-beating  crash, 
And  the  quick,  playful  snort,  as  onward  we  glide, 
From  their  nostrils  keep  time  to  the  lengthening 

stride. 

The  miles  spin  behind  us,  with  bound  upon  bound 
Two  shadows  fly  on  like  a  twin-headed  hound. 
My  roan  tossed  the  fleckings  of  foam  in  a  ring, 
As  an  eagle  the  snow-flake  that  lights  on    his 

wing. 

And  with  nose  to  his  knees  and  his  ears  laid  back 
He  swept  a  clean  path  through  the  dust-covered 

track, 

Galloping,  galloping,  galloping  on— 
Ten  miles  in  the  moonlight,  galloping  on. 

But  onward  we  went,  head  lowered,  and  bent 
To  the  stride  like  an  arrow  from  ashen  bow  sent. 
My  horse  was   now  wet  to  the  mane  with  his 

sweat, 
And  the  grey,  where  the  dust  and  the  moisture 

had  met, 

Was  white  as  the  palfrey  Godiva  rode  down 
Through  the  dead  silent  street  of  Coventry  town. 
248 


from  Tennessee 

His  breath  comes  shorter  and  quicker — a  wheeze, 
And  I  note  that  his  stride  is  not  true  at  the  knees. 
I  felt  of  my  roan,  brought  him  down  to  a  pace, 
For  the  speed  was  terrific,  the  gait — 'twas  a  race! 
I  stood  in  my  stirrups  and  cut  loose  the  cord 
Of  the  cantle  strap — down  went  the  full  useless 

load  ! 

I  threw  off  my  saber  and  cavalry  cloak, 
My  rain-coat  and  blanket,  and,  bending,  I  spoke: 
"Steady,  good  Tennessee  !     Steady  and  true, 
There's  a  race  yet  ahead,  old  fellow,  for  you. 
Just  swing  this  long  gallop  for  ten  miles  or  more, 
We   are   frolicking  now,   but  we'll    show   them 

before 

We  halt  in  the  shadow  of  yon  mount  by  the  flood 
The  never-die  spirit  of  Tennessee  blood." 

Galloping,  galloping,  galloping  on — 

Twenty  miles  in  the  moonlight,  galloping  on. 

But  see  !  now  he  pricks  up  his  ears  as  we  rush, 
And  shies  with  a  bound  to  the   right  from  the 

brush. 

A  glance,  and  pitifully  struggling  with  pain 
The  Captain's  black  horse  is  stretched  out  on 

the  plain, 

And  I  see  as  I  pass,  with  a  pull  on  the  bit, 
The  scarlet  blood  gush  from  his  deep  nostril-pit. 
To  the  Corporal  1  said  :   "  Do  you  know  what 

we  passed  ?" 

He  nodded — "  I  knew  he  was  going  too  fast. 
249 


Songs  and  Stories 

The  black  was  dead  game,  but  too  fat  and  rank 

To  run  twenty  miles  with  a  steel  in  his  flank. 
Poor  fellow  !    But  where  can  his  rider  now  be  ?" 
"  Ahead,  and  on  foot — just  ahead,  do  you  see  ?" 
As  a  speck  in  the  distance,  a  spot  in  the  grey— 
Then  a  tall,  lithe  figure  plodding  away. 
He  stops  at  the  sound  of  our  galloping  hoof ; 
We  draw  curb  a  moment  'neath  the  silvery  roof 
That  rolls  o'er  our  heads  as  our  steeds  make  a 

launch, 
Planting  stiff  knees  in  sand,  thrown  back  on  their 

haunch. 
"  What  news  ?"     "  Go  on,  and  check  not  your 

rein," 
Said  the    father,  as   quickly  he  stooped  on  the 

plain. 
Then  rising — "From  the  track  we're   an    hour 

behind. 

For  the  love  of  your  homes  speed  on  like  the  wind  ! 
But  halt !     Corporal,  give  me  that  good  gallant 

grey"— 

A  moment,  and  then  we  were  speeding  away — 
Speeding  away  through  the  low,  creeping  light, 
Through  the  shade  and  the  shadow,  the  blare 

and  the  blight 
Of  the  heat  wave  that  clung  to  the  breath  of  the 

night — • 

Speeding  away  through  the  leg-wearying  sand, 
Through  the  hoof-stinging  flint  of  that  alkali  land 
With  steel  in  our  hearts  and  steel  in  our  hand, 
250 


from  Tennessee 

Galloping,  galloping,  galloping  on — 
Thirty  miles  in  the  moonlight,  galloping  on. 

Not  a  word  :  as  we  rushed  adown  a  long  slope 
We  bounded  as  free  as  the  wild  antelope. 
A  coyote  howls  out  from  a  neighboring  hill, 
An  owl  hoots  an  answer,  and  then  all  is  still. 
A  rise  in  the  range  of  our  trail  to  the  right 
And  our  cloud-propping  goal  flashes  bold  on  our 

sight. 
"Thank     God!"    cries     the    Captain,     "their 

powers  now  fail. 
They  have  come  to  a  trot — see  the  tracks  in  the 

trail  !" 

And  crazed  with  the  grief  that  a  father  can  feel 
He  sends  the  steel  home  with  a  desperate  heel. 
But  I  mark  the  short  breaths  of  the  grey  as  he 

goes, 

And  his  staggering  gait  as  the  dust  upward  'rose. 
"Draw  your  rein!"  to  the  Captain  I  shouted 

aloud  ; 
"Your  horse  will  choke  down  in  this  dust-stifling 

cloud. 

We  have  come  many  miles  without  water  or  rest — 
Draw  rein  just  a  moment —  '  Down  on  his  breast, 
With  a  sickening  wheeze  from  his  steam-heaving 

chest, 

He  staggers — reels — heaves — and  over  he  sinks, 
While  the   blood    bubbles  up  from    its  carmined 

brinks. 

251 


Songs  and  Stories 

"  Go  on,  Sergeant — on  !"  as  he  leaps  to  be  free — 
"  My  child  and  her  life  rest  with  old  Tennessee  !" 
Galloping,  galloping,  galloping  on — 
Alone  in  the  moonlight,  galloping  on. 

For  the  first  time  now  I  felt  nervous  with  dread  ; 
Even  Tennessee  galloped  less  bravely  ahead. 
Each  bush  seemed  an  Indian  as  big  as  a  horse, 
Each  shadow  the  ghost  of  another,  across 
Our  path  slipping  on  in  the  dim,  misty  light 
To  warn  those  ahead  to  be  ready  for  fight. 
I  spoke  to  brave  Tennessee,  stroked  his  wet  crest, 
Talked  of  the  home  where  we  both  used  to  rest — 
The  meadows,  where  shone  the  calm,  blue  sky 

above, 

And  the  blue  grass  below  in  the  land  of  our  love — 
Of  the  old  mare,  perchance  nodding  now  in  her 

stall, 

And  the  father  and  mother — ah  !  dearest  of  all. 
And  I  smile  even  now  as  I  think  of  the  song 
I  sang  out  aloud  as  we  staggered  along  ; 
And  Tennessee  braced  himself  up  at  the  sound, 
For  I  felt  his  feet  strike  a  bit  steadier  the  ground, 
And  it  nerved  even  me— not  a  moment  too  soon, 
For  there,  standing  there  in  the  light  of  the  moon, 
Almost  in  our  pathway — how  quickly  it  rose  ' 
Then, — the  twang  of  a  bow  under  Tennessee's 

nose, 

Just  as  the  horse  on  his  haunches  arose, 
And  the  deadly  barbed  arrow,  intended  for  me, 
252 


from  Tennessee 

With  a  rattlesnake  hiss  struck  brave  Tennessee 
Just  under  the  throat,  near  the  big  throbbing  vein, 
And  came  out  above,  in  his  sweat-covered  mane. 
But  he  drew  not  another,  for  quick  through  his 

head 

My  Colt  sent  a  cone  of  government  lead— 
And    Uncle    Sam's  darling  in  the  moonlight  lay 

dead  ! 
A  moment's  convulsion — on  his  knees  sank  my 

roan — 

Down  !  and  my  heart  sank,  too,  with  his  groan, 
But,  struggling,  he  'rose  with  the  staggering  pain 
As  I  spoke,  and  came  to  his  senses  again, 
Then  plunged  —  reeled  —  plunged  —  Great  God, 

would  he  fall 
With  that  flint  in  his  throat  ?     In  vain  was  my 

call  ! 
How  I  pitied  him,  struggling,  the  will  'gainst  the 

flesh  ! 

But  I  thought  of  the  Lily  and  urged  him  afresh, 
And  I  plunged  both  my  spurs  in  his  death-shaking 

sides. 

He  never  had  felt  them  before  in  his  rides, 
For  he  bounded  away  with  the  bit  in  his  teeth 
And  the  frenzy  of  death  in  his  hoof-beats  beneath. 
And  he  ran  as  if  knowing  his  last  race  was  run — 
Was  there  ever  a  grander  one  under  the  sun  ! 

A  spurt  on  the  trail,  a  maiden's  low  cry, 
Half-strangled — and  then  we  were  thundering  by. 
253 


Songs  and  Stories 

Useless  my  pistol  !     I  threw  it  away  ; 
Too  close  was  the  Lily — too  deadly  the  fray  ! 
A  spring  and  a  grapple  !    A  hand  to  hand  strife— 
A   blow — here's   the    scar   from    his    murderous 

knife — 
The  next  and  my  grandfather's  King  Mountain* 

made 
A  path  through  his  heart  to  his  left  shoulder  blade. 

A  maid  on  the  sand — and  she  held  in  her  lap 
Not  my  head — but  that  of  a  far  nobler  chap. 
A  maid  on  the  sand — and  her  tears  fall  free 
On  the  quivering  muzzle  of  brave  Tennessee, 
While  his  poor,  pleading  eyes  seemed  to  linger 

above 
To  tell  her  he  galloped  that  gallop  for  love. 

That's  all  !     When  I  waked  from  a  two  hours' 

swoon 

(Where  I  dreamed  a  sweet  Lily  grew  by  a  lagoon 
And  kissed  me  and  bound  with  her  leaflets  my 

wound) 

The  Captain  was  there  with  fifty  picked  men, 
And  they  swore  such  a  ride  they  would  ne'er  see 

again  ! 
And  the  Captain  broke  down,  and  the  Lily  and 

me, 
And  we  all  went  to  camp — all  but  old  Tennessee. 

*  A  short,  heavy  knife  made  from  the  sword  his  grand- 
sire  used  at  the  battle  of  King's  Mountain.  The  writer 
has  often  seen  it. 

254 


from  Tennessee 

He  sleeps  by  the  shore 

Where  swift  waters  roar, 
The  mountain  his  monument 

Till  time  is  no  more, 

And  beneath — this  is   carved  where   a   boulder 
hangs  o'er  : 

HERE  LIES  TENNESSEE, 

of  the 
SEVENTH   CAVALRY. 

the 
same  was  a  horse, 

yet 

HE  GALLOPED  ACROSS 

The  Plain 

To  Fame. 

Of  Three,  He  Alone 

had 
The  Blood  and  the  Bone 

TO  RUN 

Fifty  Miles  to  the  Yellowstone. 
To  Save  a  Life  He  Gave  His  Own. 

And  now  I  have  told  you  the  story,  lad, 

Except — well,  I  soon  came  home, 
For  1  had  no  mount  that  was  any  account 

And  I  had  no  heart  to  roam. 
But  after  a  while  I  did  go  back  and 

I  brought  her  home  with  me — 
The  Lily  of  Fort  Custer — and  she  blooms  in  Ten- 
nessee. 


Songs  and  Stories 


THE  FLAG  OF  GREEN'S  BRIGADE. 
(Louisiana  Building,  World's  Fair  Grounds.) 

OWHEN  I  stood  before  the  tatter'd  flag  of 
,      Green's  brigade, 
My  heart  beat  martial  music  for  the  thoughts  my 

spirit  made. 
I  saw  the  old-time  flint-locks  flash  their  deadly 

disks  of  flame, 
I  cheered  the  old-time  ragged  lines  that  marched 

in  Freedom's  name, 
I  wept   o'er   old-time   gaping  wounds  in   manly 

breasts  displayed, 
And  dying  eyes  that  last  looked  on  the  flag  of 

Green's  brigade. 

O,  when  I  stood  before  the  faded  flag  of  Green's 
brigade, 

1  saw  the  blood  of  heroes  in  its  every  tint  and 
shade. 

'Neath  Saratoga's  steel-cold  stars  it  led  our  charg- 
ing line 

And  hurled  back  Freedom's  challenge  from  the 
guns  of  Brandywine, 

At  Germantown  and  Kettle  Creek  and  Camden's 
leaden  rain — 

256 


from  Tennessee 

Till  Yorktown  found  it  torn  and  shorn  but  still 

without  a  stain  ! 
'Twas  this  that  led  the  tide  that  swept  our  craft 

from  out  the  gloom 
And  hung,  like  Hope's  bright  banner,  o'er  the 

portals  of  the  tomb  ; 
And,  flaming  like  a  flambeau  held  in  Victory's 

mailed  hand, 
It  blazed  the  way  for  brightest  day  throughout 

the  struggling  land. 
Around  it  flocked  the  Southron  while  the  bright 

beams  of  his  blade 
Gleamed  out  like  stars  of  midnight  'round  the 

flag  of  Green's  brigade. 

O,  as  I  stand  before  the  faded  flag  of  Green's 
brigade, 

Methinks  1  hear  the  thunder  of  the  Future's  can- 
nonade ! 

Methinks  our  lines  are  marching — marching  to 
the  same  old  call — 

And  some  are  blue  and  some  are  gray — the  old 
flag  over  all. 

And  Gettysburg  and  Bull  Run  now  have  met, 
both  undismayed, 

To  fight  their  country's  battles  'round  the  flag  of 
Green's  brigade. 


17  257 


Songs  and  Stories 


BY  THE  LITTLE  BIG-HORN. 

(A  Montana  paper  is  authority  for  the  state- 
ment that  a  half-breed  Sioux,  who  had  served 
as  scout  for  Gen.  Custer,  was  living  in  that  State 
a  few  years  ago,  and  claimed  to  be  the  only  sur- 
vivor of  Ouster's  last  fight.  In  the  confusion 
this  half-breed  mingled  with  the  Sioux  and  escaped 
the  massacre  by  reason  of  close  tribal  resem- 
blance. He  relates  how  eight  horsemen  of  the 
Seventh  Regiment  cut  through  the  Sioux  and 
gained  the  foot-hills  beyond,  where  they  could 
easily  have  joined  Reno  and  escaped,  had  they 
not  looked  down  and  seen  the  desperate  strait  in 
which  their  general  was  placed.  To  the  aston- 
ishment of  all,  they  shot  their  own  horses,  and, 
forming  into  line,  marched  back  to  die  with 
Custer.) 

DOWN  to  their  death  in  the  valley  of  silence, 
Down  where  the  Sioux's  treach'rous  ranks 

lay  at  bay, 
Down  till  the  yellow  waves  turned  into  crimson 

The  old  Seventh  rode  on  that  ill-fated  day. 
"Forward,  the  Seventh!     Charge  through   the 
Sioux  center !" 

258 


from  Tennessee 

'Twas   Custer   who   said   it — he    rode  on  the 

right— 

His  long  yellow  hair  was  the   banner  they  fol- 
lowed 

And  he  sat  his  black  horse  like  the  Centaur  of 
fight ! 

Down  to  their  death  in  that  somber-hued  valley, 
They  rode  through  the  Sioux  with  carbine  and 

Colt— 
The  reins  in  their  teeth  and  the  glint  of  their 

sabers 

Making  the  flash  for  their  lead  thunderbolt. 
"Forward,   the  Seventh — guide  right!      To  the 

center !" 

'Twas  Custer  who  said  it,  as  onward  he  sped, 
Spurring  his  steed  where  the  eagle's  grey  feathers 
Rose  o'er  the  crest  of  the  billows  of  red. 

Out  from  that  valley,  that  valley  of  carnage, 
Eight  horsemen  have  cut  through  the  ranks  of 

the  foe  ; 

They  gain  the  bold  heights  and  safely  look  down- 
ward, 

Down  on  the  scene  of  this  new  Alamo. 
For  there,  his  dead  steed  as  a  breastwork  before 

him, 

With  the  glory  of  battle  ablaze  in  his  eye, 
Answering  it  back  in  flash  of  his  pistols, 

Our  prince  of  the  saddle  has  stopped  there — 
to  die  ! 

259 


Songs  and  Stories 

Again  and  again  roll  the  billows  of  fury 

To  be  shattered  again  as  the  wave  on  the  rock  ; 
Again  and  again  melts  the  line  of  the  Seventh 

Beneath  the  Sioux  bullet  and  Wahpeton  shock. 
But   see  !    from   the    heights    where   their   good 

steeds  have  clambered, 

Out-footing  Sioux  ponies  in  fleet-winged  flight, 
The  eight  have  dismounted — one  glance  tells  the 

story — 

They   shoulder   their   rifles   and   dress  to  the 
right. 

They  hear   the   wild    whoop  of   the  blood-mad- 
dened savage, 
They  see  their  brave  comrades  go  down  in  the 

brunt, 
They  hear   through   the   din  the    calm  voice  of 

brave  Custer — 
A    breastwork    of    dead    he    has    made    in  his 

front  ! 
"Attention,    squad!"    'twas   the    sergeant  who 

said  it, 

"  Fours  right  into  line — our  duty  lies  back  !" 
Then  quick  from  his  belt  came  a  blue-gleaming 

barrel, 

And  the  steed  that  had  saved  him  lay  dead  in 
its  track  ! 

Back  to  their  death  in  that  valley  of  slaughter 
Eight  horsemen  march  down  on  the  hosts  of 
the  Sioux, 

260 


from  Tennessee 

Not   a   trumpet   gave  note  —  not  the  gleam  of  a 

banner  — 

'Tis  only  a  duty  they  march  down  to  do. 
"  Forward,  squad  !"  said  the  sergeant  immortal  — 
''Charge   straight   for   the   center  —  to  Custer 

once  more," 

And  Time,  in  his  pitiless  flight,  for  a  moment 
Looked   down  on  a  sight  he   had  ne'er  seen 
before. 

Up  in  that  valley,  that  sweetly  green  valley, 

O,  raise  them  a  monument  proudly  in  air, 
Telling  the  story  as  ages  grow  hoary 

What  American  soldiers  for  duty  will  dare. 
High  on  the  shaft  in  the  glint  of  the  sunlight 

Let  Custer's  proud  figure,  heroic,  stand  high, 
And    grouped    just     beneath,    with    immortelle 
wreath, 

The    eight    nameless    horsemen    who    never 
shall  die. 


THOROUGHBREDS. 

(An  incident  of  the  fight  around  Atlanta.) 

STRAIGHT  at  the  breastworks,  flanked  with 
fire, 

Where  the  angry  rifles  spat  their  ire, 
And  the  reeling  cannon  rocked  with  flame, 
Swift  as  his  namesake,  Bullet  came. 
Young  was  his  rider,  fifteen  and  two, 
261 


Songs  and  Stories 

And  yet  the  battles  that  he'd  been  through 
Were  fifteen  and  ten — a  braver  lad 
Old  Fighting  Forrest  never  had  ! 

And  as  he  rode  down  the  rifled  wind 

His  brown  curls  bannered  the  breeze  behind. 

"  O,  they  are  mother's,"  he   had  laughed  and 

said 

When  the  men  nicknamed  him  "Trundle  Bed" 
Two  years  before— when  he  first  ran  away 
From  mother  and  school  to  don  the  gray. 
"  But  that's  all  right  "—with  a  toss  of  his  head— 
"  For  Bullet  is  grown — and  he's  thoroughbred  !" 

But  that  was  before  the  Shiloh  fight 
Where  he  led  the  charge  'gainst  Prentiss'  right. 
And  as  he  came  through  the  smoke  and  flame 
Old  Forrest  himself  was  heard  to  exclaim  : 
"  Just  look  at  Bullet  and  Trundle  Bed  ! 
I  tell  you,  boys,  they're  both  thoroughbred  !" 
And  from  that  day  on  it  became  a  law, 
"  Follow  Bullet  and  you'll  go  to  war  !" 
To-day  he  rode  less  erect,  I  ween, 
For  he'd  had  a  battle  with  General  Gangrene 
In  the  hospital  tent — (a  ball  in  his  chest 
For  riding  too  far  over  Kenesaw's  crest). 
But  even  while  tossing  with  fever  and  pain 
He  had  caught  a  whiff  of  battle  again, 
Just  smelt  it  afloat  in  the  sulphurous  air, 
And  he  knew,  somehow,  that  Forrest  was  there 
262 


from  Tennessee 

And  hard  pressed,  too — so,   'twixt  crutches  and 

crawl, 

That  night  he  slipped  out  to  Bullet's  stall. 
A  whinnying  welcome — a  kiss  on  his  ear, 
''I'm  alive  yet,  Bullet— Trundle  Bed's  here  !" 
A  pattering  gallop  at  first  daylight, 
The  boom  of  a  gun  on  Johnston's  right — 
"That's  Cleburne,   Bullet!     What  a    charming 

fight!" 

Straight  at  the  sheeted  and  leaden  rain 
He  rode — Alas  !  not  back  again  ! 
For  the  hot  fire  scorched  the  curls  of  brown, 
And  grapeshot  mowed  their  owner  down, 
And  the  heart  that  beat  for  mother  and  home 
Was  dumb  where  it  wept  and  wet  the  loam, 
And  dim  in  the  dust  the  blue  eyes  fine — 
But  Bullet  charged  over  the  Yankee  line. 

Charged   over   the   line  ! — then    he    missed   the 

touch 

Of  the  rider  that  always  had  loved  him  much, 
And  he  wheeled  as  the  gray  lines  rose  and  fell 
'Neath  fire  like  fire  from  the  pits  of  hell, 
And  he  rushed  again  on  a  backward  track 
When  he  saw  the  Texas  brigade  fall  back. 
But  whose  was  the  form  that  caught  his  eye 
With  boots  to  the  guns  and  face  to  the  sky  ? 
And  whose  was  the  voice  ? — "  Tell  mother  good- 
bye !" 

263 


Songs  and  Stories 

And  why  were  the  curls  red  ?    His  were  brown — • 
He  stopped  as  if  a  shot  had  brought  him  down  ! 

Hell  answered  hell  in  the  cannon's  roar, 
And  steel  cursed  steel — yet  he  stood  before 
The  form  he  loved  ; — for  he  knew  the  eyes 
Though  their  June    had  changed    to    December 

skies. 

Hell  answered  hell  in  the  cannon's  roar, 
And  steel  cursed  steel — yet  he  whinnied  o'er 
The  form  he  loved,  while  the  grapeshot  tore  ! 
And  still  he  stood  o'er  the  curly  head — 
For  Bullet,  you  know,  was  thoroughbred — 
Till  a  solid  shot  plowed  a  cruel  rent, — 
A  last  loving  whinny — and  Bullet  was  spent ! 

The  burying  squad  in  blue  next  day 
Stopped  to  a  man  as  they  wiped  away 
A  tear — for  there  all  calm  'mid  the  wreck 
Was  Trundle  Bed  pillowed  on  Bullet's  neck  ! 

O  Union  great,  O  Union  strong, 
The  South,  you  say,  was  in  the  wrong, 
And  yet,  some  day,  when  the  foe  shall  come, 
Some  day  at  the  beat  of  an  insolent  drum, 
When  the  glorious  Stars  and  Stripes  unfurl'd 
Shall  stand  for  Home  in  Freedom's  world, 
The  first  their  blood  in  the  cause  to  shed 
Will  be — the  sons  of  the  thoroughbred  ! 


from  Tennessee 


"WEARING  THE  GRAY." 

(A  Memorial  Day  Poem  for  the  Confederacy.) 

WEARING  the  gray,  wearing  the  gray, 
Battling  alone  in  the  world  of  to-day, 
Fighting  for  bread  in  the  battle  of  life, 
With  courage  as  grand  as  they  rode  to  the  strife. 
Marching  to  beat  of  Toil's  merciless  drum, 
Longing  for  comrades  who  never  shall  come, 
Comrades  who  sleep  where  they  fell  in  the  fray- 
Dead — but  immortal  in  jackets  of  gray. 

Wearing  the  gray  in  the  silvery  hair, 
Mortality's  banner  that  Time  planted  there  ! 
Wearing  a  gray,  while  the  tears  upward  start, 
A  gray  that  is  buried  down  deep  in  the  heart. 

Wearing  the  gray,  wearing  the  gray, 
The  old  line  marches  in  mem'ry  to-day — 
The  old  drums  beat  and  the  old  flags  wave — 
How  the  dead    gray-jackets  spring  up  from  the 

grave  ! 
They  rush    on  with  Pickett  where    young  gods 

would  yield, 

They  sweep  with  Forrest  the  shell-harrowed  field, 

They  laugh  at  the  bolts  from  the  batteries  hurled, 

Yet  weep  around  Lee  when  the  last  flag  is  furled. 

265 


Songs  and  Stories 

Wearing  the  gray  o'er  the  temples  of  white, 
Time's  banner  of   truce  for  the  end  of  the 

fight. 

Wearing  a  gray  that  was  worn  long  ago, 
With  their  face  to  the  front  and  their  front 

to  the  foe. 

Wearing  the  gray,  wearing  the  gray, 

Longing  to  bivouac  over  the  way, 

To  rest  o'er  the  river  in  the  shade  of  the  trees, 

And  furl  the  old  flag  to  eternity's  breeze. 

To  camp  by  the  stream  on  that  evergreen  shore, 

And  meet  with  the  boys  who  have  gone  on  before. 

To  stand  at  inspection  'mid  pillars  of  light, 

While  God  turns  the  gray  into  robings  of  white. 

Wearing    the    gray    o'er    the    foreheads    of 

snow — 
The  drum-beat  is  quick,  but  the  paces  are 

slow — 

Wearing  a  gray  for  the  land  of  the  blest, 
When  life's  fight  is  o'er  and  the  rebel  shall 

rest. 

Wearing  the  gray,  wearing  the  gray, 
Almost  in  the  valley,  almost  in  the  spray, 
Waiting  for  taps  when  the  light  shall  go  out, 
Yet  hoping  to  wake  with  a  reveille  shout  ! 
Leaving  to  Heaven  the  Right  and  the  Wrong, 
Praying  for  strength  in  the  old  battle  song — 
266 


from  Tennessee 

Praying  for  strength  in  the  last  ditch  to  stay, 
When  death  turns  his  guns  on  the  old  head  of  gray. 

Wearing  the  gray  in  the  paleness  of  death, 
For  the  angel  has  swept  with  a  garnering 

breath  ! 

Wearing  a  gray  when  he  wakes  in  the  morn — 
The  old  rebel  jacket  our  dead  boy  had  on  ! 


THE  BELLS  OF  ATLANTA. 

(An  Incident  of  the  Civil  War.) 

AUTUMN  sunset  on  Atlanta  painting  banners 
red  of  Mars- 
Twinkling   campfires   in    the    distance    like   ten 

thousand  evening  stars. 
For  the  foe  had  come  upon  her  in  the  glory  of  his 

might, 
And  his  siege  guns,  like  grim  war  dogs,  waited 

for  the  morrow's  fight. 

Down  the  valley  in  the  moonlight  lay  the  Gate- 
way of  the  South, 
Fruitful  as  a  summer  grain  field  when  the  east 

wind  breaks  the  drought — 

Proud  as  harem  queen,   and  heedless — sleeping 
'neath  the  cannon's  mouth. 
267 


Songs  and  Stories 

Sabbath  sunrise  on  Atlanta,  issuing  in  the  steel- 
gray  morn, 
Turning  dark  hills  into  silver  as  the  crystal  light 

is  born  ; 
Wakes  the  beaming  sky  in  beauty,  sleeps  the 

somber  earth  in  shade — 
Only  reveille  and  roll-call  mock  the  peace  that 

God  has  made  ! 
And   the    siege    guns   ceased    their    dreaming — 

ceased  their  dreaming  of  the  fray, 
Turned  their  horrid  fronts  to  eastward,  where  the 

quiet  city  lay — 
For  the  word  had  come  from  masters  they  must 

open  on  their  prey  ! 


Far  away  through  blue-domed  morning  rose  the 

city's  thread-like  spires, 

Lifting  up  the  southern  banner   to  her  heaven- 
kindling  fires  ; 
And  the  foemen,  seeing,  wondered — knew  they 

fought  no  battle  wraith—- 
For the  finger  of  her  worship  was  the  flag-staff  of 

her  faith  ! 
Ay,  they  knew  that  in    that  banner,  fluttering 

there  without  a  flaw, 
Slept  the  nerve  of  Chickamauga  and  the  heart 

of  Kenesaw — 
Slumbered  southern  hope  and  glory,  her  religion 

and  her  law. 

268 


from  Tennessee 

"  Aim  for  yonder  cursed  banner  flouting  from  that 

tallest  spire  ; 

Open  with  the  hundred-pounders — let  the  bat- 
teries follow  fire  !" 
Thus  spake  Sherman,  and  his  army,  marshaled 

in  the  hilltop  sun, 
Waited  there  in  painful  silence  for  the  music  of 

that  gun. 
And  those  siege  guns,  huge,  black-muzzled,  show 

their  demon,  ghoulish  lips, 
As  they  raise  their  necks  to  measure  where  the 

blue  horizon  dips — 
Where  to    spring  across  the   valley  when  their 

leash  the  keeper  slips. 


In  a  moment  on  the  city  there  would  rain  a  fire 

of  hell  ; 
Solid  shot  would  mingle  thunder  with  the  shriek 

of  shrapnel  shell  ! 
Like  an  eagle  from  his  eyrie  falling  on  the  flock 

below, 
Death  would    scream   across  the   valley  lighted 

by  the  fuse's  glow. 
Then    the    sergeant   grasps    the    lanyard,  while 

erect  the  gunners  stand, 
As  they  wait  in  dumb  obedience  for  the  Colonel's 

stem  c  o  m  m  a  n  d — 

For  the  word  unloosing  thunder  on  this  heaven- 
basking  land. 


Songs  and  Stories 

Suddenly,  far  down  the  valley,  came  a  faint  yet 

tuneful  sound, 
Floating  from  the  tallest  steeple,  spreading  like 

God's  halo  'round. 
And  the  sergeant  dropped  the   lanyard  as   that 

sweet  wave  rose  and  fell, 
And  the  bristling  ranks  saluted — for  they  heard 

their  own  church  bell  : 

Softly,  sweetly,  rising,  falling, 
Hark  !  'tis  thus  the  paean  ran — 

Gently  chiding,  calmly  calling: 

"  Peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  man  !" 

Heralding  to  pale  blue  morning 
Till  the  echoing  hilltops  start — 

Shell  and  shot  and  cannon  scorning  : 
"  Love  thy  God  with  all  thy  heart!" 

Out  it  pours,  full  heaven-throated, 
Caring  naught  for  glory's  pelf, 

Chiming,  as  it  upward  floated  : 
"  Love  thy  neighbor  as  thyself !" 

God's  own  skylark  of  His  spirit ! — sweeter  than 

the  songs  of  war, 
Grander  than  the  bass  of  battle  when  the  cannon 

boom  afar — 
Mightier  than  the  thunder-organs  on  the  decks  at 

Trafalgar  ! 

270 


from  Tennessee 

And  the  soldier  as  he  listened  saw  New  England's 

hilltops  rise — 
Saw  the   plains  of   Indiana  stretch  beneath  his 

misty  eyes. 
Vanished    now   the   flags  of    battle,    gone   were 

armed  host  and  gun, 
And  his  own  sweet  native  village  lay  before  him 

in  the  sun. 
It  is  Sabbath,  and  the  church  bells  call  him  now 

to  worship  God  ; 
Sabbath  there — yet  here  he  standeth,  ready  with 

the  chastening  rod, 
Till  a  brother's  blood  shall  mingle  with  his  own, 

his  southern  sod. 


'Tis  enough — the  flags  are  lowered  and  the  blue- 
steel  guns  they  stack — 

God  has  broken  ranks  where  cannon  never  yet 
has  turned  them  back. 

All  day  long  the  rebel  banner,  flirting  while  the 
winds  caressed, 

Mocked  the  guns  that,  parked  to  westward, 
crowned  the  hilltop's  bristling  crest. 

All  day  long  the  Sabbath  sunlight  o'er  the  peace- 
ful city  spread, 

Blending  blue  and  gray  battalions  in  the  soft 

clouds  overhead—- 
And the  siege  guns  watched  and  wondered  why 
their  keepers  all  had  fled  ! 


Songs  and  Stories 

Ring,  ye  church  bells  of  Atlanta  !     Ring  till  sin 

and  hate  shall  cease  ! 
Ring,  till  nations  hear  thy  paeans,  and  the  founts 

of  love  release, 
And  the  notes  of  drums  are  drowned  in  thy  mel- 

odies of  peace. 


THE  TENNESSEEAN  TO  THE  FLAG. 

(A  Poem  Read  at  the  Opening  of  the  United  States 
Arsenal  at  Columbia,  Tenn.) 

WE  followed  you  first  in  the  days  of  old, 
For  you  stood  for  the  rights  of  men, 
And  our  pioneer  soldiers  followed  your  fold  —  - 

For  they  fought  for  the  Union  then  ; 
They  held  you  aloft  in  the  fiery  flame, 
'Mid  the  shriek  of  the  British  shell, 
And  planted  you  on  the  heights  of  fame  — 
That  flag  they  loved  so  well  ! 

We  followed  you  first  in  the  days  of  old, 

When  our  Jackson  went  to  the  fray, 
And  the  Tennessee  soldiers  lay  in  the  cold 

Of  that  long,  dread  winter  day. 
They  lay  in  the  cold,  but  you  floated  o'er, 

And  the  silence  was  deep  as  the  grave 
Till  their  long-barreled  rifles  spoke  with  a  roar 

For  the  flag  they  fought  to  save. 
272 


from  Tennessee 

We  followed  you  first  in  the  days  of  old, 

When  our  Polk  roused  the  Mexican  ire, 
And  we  gathered  an  empire  into  the  fold 

To  warm  it  with  Liberty's  fire. 
'Twas  our  own   gallant  Campbell  who   led  the 
band, 

The  first  o'er  the  Mexican  height, 
And  yon  flag  of  our  Union  went  in  his  hand 

Through  the  red-hot  fire  of  the  fight. 

We've  followed  you  oft  in  the  days  of  old— 

And  we'll  follow  you  oft  again  ! 
Shall  the  pulse  of  the  son  grow  sluggish  and  cold 

Where  the  sire's  blood  flowed  like  the  rain  ? 
Shall  the  deeds  of  the  past,  by  Error  bewail'd, 

Be  lost  in  passion's  dark  flow, 
And  the  flag  of  our  country  by  brothers  be  trailed 

When  it  never  has  trailed  to  the  foe  ? 

No  !    We'll  follow  you  now,  proud  flag  of  the  free, 

Should  the  foe  with  his  banners  e'er  come — 
No  need  for  a  bugle  to  call  us  to  thee, 

Our  hearts  make  the  beat  of  our  drum  ! 
With  the  spirit  of  Jackson  to  guide  from  above, 

And  the  mem'ry  of  Crockett  to  aid  us, 
We'll  rally  once  more  to  the  banner  we  love — 

The  banner  our  forefathers  made  us  ! 

Then  wave,  proud  flag  of  our  Union, 
Wave  and  unroll  your  bright  bars  ; 
For  never  was  sunshine  brighter, 
18  273 


Songs  and  Stories 

And  never  the  sweet  air  lighter 
Than  that  now  circling  your  stars. 

Then  float,  proud  flag  of  our  Union, 
Float  o'er  this  land  of  the  free  ; 
For  ne'er  was  love  any  truer, 
And  ne'er  was  sentiment  purer 
Than  the  love  of  our  people  for  thee. 


TENNESSEE. 

(A  Centennial  Poem — 1897.) 

SUN-SHIMMER'D  fields  of  dreaming  green, 
A  sky  blue-domed  in  azure  sheen, 
And  hill  on  hill  dipped  deep  between. 
And  with  soft  sighs  the  breezes  rise 
To  waft  cloud-kisses  to  the  skies. 

Nature  smiled,  and  dimpled  back 
The  Middle  Basin  in  her  track. 
She  laughed,  and  ling'ring  on  its  crest 
Her  echo  rolled  from  out  the  west. 
She  frowned,  and  'round  her  thoughtful  brow, 
'Rose  our  bold  peaks  of  liberty. 
'Rose,  and  wedded  with  the  sky — • 
For  Liberty  will  wed  no  less 
Than  this  sky-child  of  loveliness, 
With  eyes  of  stars  and  sunset  tress. 
274 


from  Tennessee 

And  one — King's  Mountain  peak  in  name- 
Has  linked  his  wedding  day  to  fame — 
For  scorning  Self,  and  hoyden  Mirth, 
And  flesh-pot  Pride,  and  cringing  Earth, 
He  kissed  his  bride-queen  of  the  sky 
And  gave  to  Independence  birth. 

God  saw  the  picture,  that  'twas  good, 
And  so  on  heaven's  heights  He  stood 
And  through  the  bars  of  throbbing  stars 
Sent  men  whose  souls  were  souls  of  Mars. 

God  saw  the  picture,  that  'twas  fair, 
And  so,  from  out  of  heaven's  air, 
Through  dreamy  haze  of  nebulous  ways— 
(Souled  in  the  sweetness  of  their  lays 
And  crowned  in  the  halo  of  their  blaze) 
Sent  maids  to  wed  these  men  of  Mars. 

And  over  all,  from  Morning's  loom, 
He  cast  a  veil  of  blue  and  bloom, 
As  ancient  kings  a  cloth  of  gold 
Threw  o'er  the  master  works  of  old. 

When  star  weds  star,  the  stars  are  born, 
And  after  star-birth  comes  the  morn, 
The  morn  of  Men  and  Principle. 
And  so  men  came  of  giant  frame — 
Live-oaks  in  the  field  of  Fame — 
Monarchs  in  God's  forestry. 
275 


Songs  and  Stories 

And  one  came  as  the  Hickory,*  with  steel-knit, 

stubborn  form, 

The  gatherer  of   strength  that's  won  by  wrest- 
ling with  the  storm, 
The  main-mast  of  that  sturdy  ship  that  first  flung 

to  the  world 
The    heaven-reflected   glory   of    the    Stars    and 

Stripes  unfurled. 
He  came  and  smote,  and  from  the  throat  of  guns 

of  Tennessee, 
He    echoed    back    the    thunder-note    of    infant 

Liberty. 
And  one  grew  as  the  rough,  Red  Oak,f  from  out 

the  deep,  rich  soil— 
The  strength  of  ages  garnered  in  the  nobleness 

of  toil- 
He  stood  and   died  for   Liberty,  and  far  across 

the  sea 
Tossed  back  the  new  world's  answer  to  a  new 

Thermopylae. 
And  one  was  like  the  WillowJ  in  his  grace  of 

heart  and  mind, 

And  holds  the  list'ning  ear  of  fame  as  the  harp- 
string  holds  the  wind. 
And  one  was  like  the  stately  Pine,§  his  name  an 

evergreen 
Held  in  the  prow-beak  of  each  ship  that  sails  the 

seas  between. 


*  Jackson.  t  Crockett. 

%  Haskell.  |  Matt  F.  Maury. 

276 


from  Tennessee 

And  one  came  as  the   Cedar,*  and  reared  his 

lofty  crest 
To  gather  'neath   its  ample  boughs  an  empire 

from  the  west. 
And  thousands  stood  as  Cypresses,!  when  the 

axe  of  Fate  was  nigh, 
And  in  their  moss  of  tatter'd  gray  with   proud 

heads  in  the  sky, 
Fell  in  the  fadeless  forest  of  Immortality. 

O,  children  of  such  Deeds  as  these, 
As  rivers  flow  to  make  the  seas, 
Great  spirits  make  great  destinies. 
O,  sons  of  sires,  these  deeds  adorn  ; 
As  true  as  sunlight  unto  morn 
Is  deed  that  lives,  to  deed  unborn. 
O,  maids  of  mothers,  know  ye  then, 
As  purest  stream  from  deepest  glen, 
Great  mothers  only  rear  great  men. 
Hark,  now,  from  out  his  leafy  throne, 
What  sings  our  mock-bird  Mendelssohn  : 

Tennessee,  Tennessee, 

All  our  song  goes  out  to  thee. 

From  our  eyries  where  the  eagles  breed  the  spirit 

of  the  free 

To  the  cataract  that  catches  up  the  lay  of  liberty  ; 
From  our  vestal  hills  uplifting  emerald  offerings  to 

the  sky, 

*  James  K.  Polk.  t  Confederate  soldiers. 

277 


Songs  and  Stories 

To  the  Basin  in  whose  bosom  heaven's  garnered 

glories  lie. 
Singing,  singing,   singing,   as  the  wind  sings  to 

the  sea, 

Clinging,  clinging,  clinging,  as  the  vine  clings  to 
the  tree, 

Songs  of  hope  and  songs  of  sadness, 
Songs  of  home  and  songs  of  gladness, 
Songs  of  thee. 

Tennessee,  Tennessee, 
All  our  love  goes  out  to  thee. 
From  our  mountains  where  the  marble  dreams  of 

beauty  yet  to  be, 
To  the  mighty  marching  river  bearing  bounty  to 

the  sea  ; 
From   our    Eastland   where   the   clover   blossom 

mocks  the  purple  morn, 
To  the  West  where  cotton  banners  mimic  sunset 

'mid  the  corn. 
Giving,    giving,   giving,    as    the    blossom   gives 

the  bee, 

Living,  living,  living,  as  should  ever  live  the  free, 
Love  of  truth  and  love  of  beauty, 
Love  of  God  and  love  of  duty, 
Love  of  thee. 


278 


from  Tennessee 


TO  A  WILD  ROSE  ON  AN  INDIAN  GRAVE. 

IN  the  pasture  where  the  grasses  are  the  first  to 
herald  spring, 
And  the  meadow  lark  flits  upward  on  his  para- 

chutal  wing, 
Where  the  wild  vines  weave  their  netting  and  the 

wild  winds  wander  free, 

Thou  art  blooming  in  thy  beauty  now,  sweet  rose 
of  Cherokee. 

All  around  thee  there  is  freedom,  part  and  parcel 
of  thy  life, 

Untutored  is  thy  every  grace  with  native  sweet- 
ness rife. 

The  spirit  of  the  maiden  whom  the  Choctaw 
chieftain  stole* — 

Thou  sprangest  from  her  lonely  grave,  the  rose- 
bud of  her  soul. 

Didst  thou  weave  those  golden  leaflets,  'mid  the 
centuries  long  gone  by, 

*  The  legend  of  the  Cherokee  Rose  is,  that  a  Cherokee 
maiden,  being  stolen  by  a  neighboring  chief,  died,  longing 
to  go  back  to  her  tribe.  A  rose  was  afterwards  found 
blooming  on  her  grave,  and  by  the  Indians  named  in  her 
honor. 

279 


Songs  and  Stories 

In  the  loom  of  Indian  summer  with  the  shuttles 
of  the  sky  ? 

And  that  rare  and  dainty  perfume,  circling  lam- 
bent of  thy  birth  ?  — 

'Tis  the  infant  breath  of  nature  in  the  May-day 
of  the  earth. 

In  those  rows  of  yellow  pistils,  platoon-formed, 
with  spears  of  stars, 

Didst  thou  pilfer  from  the  lark's  breast  while  he 
sang  his  sweetest  bars  ? 

And  that  blush  of  faintest  crimson,  tingeing  soft 
thy  petal's  peak  ? 

'Tis  the  red  bird's  mirrored  plumage  in  the  dew- 
drop  on  thy  cheek. 

In  those  drooping,  twining  branches,  bending  low 
in  jeweled  bloom, 

Thou  but  weavest  wreaths  of  beauty  for  the 
sleep  of  Beauty's  tomb, 

And  that  snowy,  clust'ring  garland  springing  up- 
ward and  above — 

'Tis  the  risen  soul  of  virtue  in  the  robes  of 
virtue's  love. 

Ah  !  'tis  many  circling  seasons  since  thou  first 

bloomed  o'er  the  mound, 
Where  the  Indian  maiden  slumbered  and  the  wild 

fawn  wander'd  round  ; 
Since  thou  heardst   the  Spanish  bugle,  saw  De 

Soto's  steel-clad  lines 
280 


from  Tennessee 

As  they  trampled  in  their  armor  o'er  thy  timid, 

clinging  vines. 

But  through  all  those  changing  seasons  thou  hast 

reared  thy  modest  head — 
Nature's  shaft  of  living  marble  o'er  the  ashes  of 

thy  dead, 
Teaching  all  the  world  a  lesson,  older  than  the 

spangled  sky— 
The  good  shall  live  forever,  and  the  pure  shall 

never  die. 


THE  BLUE-GRASS  PLOT. 

OTHE  blue-grass  plot,  the  blue-grass  plot, 
Where  I  played  in  the  days  long  gone, 
Where  the  sweet  grass  grew  'neath  the  morn- 
ing dew 

And  my  life  was  a  summer  morn. 
The  wild-rose  spread  o'er  the  porch  over  head 

And  the  swallows  chirped  sweet  in  their  flight, 
But  the  birds  are  fled  and  the  roses  are  dead 
And  I'm  far  from  the  old  home  to-night. 

O,  the  blue-grass  plot,  in  the  old  back  lot, 

How  I  long  to  be  there  once  more, 
With  the  colts  in  the  shade  the  elm  tree  made, 

And  my  mother's  form  at  the  door. 
Where  the  brook  brawled  along,  with  its  sweet 
glad  song, 

281 


Songs  and  Stories 

And  I  played  with  my  dog  in  his  glee, 
'Till  I  thought  all  the  gleam  of  the  sun  and  the 

stream 
Was  made  for  my  dog  and  for  me. 

O,  the  blue-grass  plot,  in  the  old  back  lot, 

How  I  long  for  your  cool,  quiet  shade  ! 
When  the  sun  went  down  and  the  crescent  crown 

Of  the  moon  'rose  over  the  glade, 
How  we  romped  on  the  sheen  of  your  dewy  green 

With  a  shout  and  a  laughter  wild, 
'Till  called  to  our  beds  where  three  weary  heads 

Soon  slept  the  sweet  sleep  of  the  child. 

O,  the  blue-grass  plot,  the  blue-grass  plot, 

O,  the  mem'ry  of  childhood  days  ! 
'Tis  bright  as  light  in  a  cheerless  night — • 

'Tis  sweet  as  the  hearth-stone  blaze. 
It  comes  with  the  thrill  of  a  form  that  is  still 

And  a  voice  now  hushed  forever, 
To  point  our  soul  to  that  better  goal — 

The  Grass-plot  over  the  River. 


282 


from  Tennessee 


TO  A  SWEET  PEA. 

(Which,  climbing  in  a  rose-bush,  had  escaped  the  first 
frost.) 

COME,    little   fairy,  with   your    outstretched 
wings 

Uplifted,  and  your  cloudless  eyes  a-dream, 
Why  are  you  here  where  late  the  bluebird  sings, 
And  all  your  sisters  drunk  of  Lethe's  stream  ? 
Dost  fear  to  die  ?     'Tis  but  a  mental  pain — 
And  each  must  sleep  if  each  would  wake  again 

Ah,  child  of  rainbow  and  the  setting  sun, 
Flirting  all  summer  where  the  poppies  grow, 

Death  came  before  your  little  task  was  done  ? 
(He    has    that    way,    as    we    poor     mortals 
know  !) — 

Then  why  seek  shelter  'neath  the  rose's  breast  ? 

For  each  must  sleep  if  each  have  perfect  rest. 

Afraid  to  go  clad  in  that  gaudy  gown  ? 

Poor  little  dancing  spirit  of  wild  joy  ! 
God  made  thee  such  ;  nor  will  He  ever  frown 

On  any  work  of  His,  tho'  sad  th'  alloy. 
Go  as  thou  art,  if  honest  be  thy  aim— 
For  God  made  honor  everywhere  the  same. 
283 


Songs  and  Stories 

Nor  fear  to  go  !     On  some  far  twinkling  star 
There  is  a  home  for  butterflies  like  thee — 

As  sterner  worlds  for  sterner  spirits  are, 
So  fairer  worlds  for  sweeter  beings  be. 

Good-by  !     Some    day  I'll    catch   thy  faint  per- 
fume, 

And  know  it  bloweth  from  immortal  bloom. 


THE   HILLS. 

I   KNOW  not  why  I  love  the  cloud-lined  hills, 
Stretching  away  so  faint  in  trembling  rills 
Of  smoke-blue  ether.     Far  away,  they  seem 
Like  fixed  billows  of  the  ocean — like  the  dream 
Of  the  sea,  when  in  his  mad  and  wild  unrest 
He  longs  to  sleep  upon  his  earth-bride's  breast. 
Transfixed,  his  waves — in  blue  and  brown  they 

stand, 

The  image  of  the  ocean  on  the  land. 
The  trees  that  tower  in  the  twilight  far 
Are  masts  of  bannered  ships  with  naked  spar, 
While  o'er  the  crest,  like  light-house  lamp,  shines 

out  the  evening  star. 

And  yet  a-near,  I  know  not  why  to  me 
They  seem  to  speak  of  friendship  and  the  glee 
Of  youth  time.     Orchards,  purpling  'mid  Octo- 
ber days, 

284 


from  Tennessee 

And  grapes  that  climb  to  kiss  the  sun's  last  rays. 

Breezes  that  turn  the  sunflower's  saffron  sail 

And  billows  the  rip'ning  grain  where  calls  the 
quail. 

Pools  that  gleam  to  stud  the  moss-grown  front  of 
rocks, 

And  cooling  forest  depths  where  rest  the  flocks. 

The  hills  !  The  hills  !  Towering  above  the  val- 
ley's sordid  clod, 

Lifting  the  earth's  dead  level  half-way  up  to  God, 

Yet  holding  all  in  sweet  communion  with  the 
mother  sod. 

Yon  mountain,  capped  with  its  eternal  snow, 
Scorning  all  sweetness — e'en  soft  clouds  below — • 
It  hath  no  charm  for  me.     There's  no  love  there, 
No  voice  of  birds,  nor  fruit-perfumed  air, 
Nor  low,   soft  song   from    bivouacked    tents   of 

hay- 

The  harvest  reapers'  song  at  close  of  day. 
Alone  it  stands,  symbol  of  dearth  and  might 
Of  naked  power  and  grandeur's  royal  right 
To  look  down  on  the  tenderer  things  of  earth 
And  scorn  the  sunshine  love  that  gave  them  birth, 
And  blight,  as  with  a  shroud  of  frost,  their  unas- 
suming mirth. 

So  may  my  life  be — like  the  hills.     Not  high 
My  hopes  and  plans,  but  midway  'twixt  the  sky 
And  stagnant  land.     So  may  my  friends  be, 
Not  like  mountains  towering  o'er  the  sea, 
285 


Songs  and  Stories 

Wrapt  in  the  cold  splendor  of  a  world  apart— 
With  granite  thoughts  and  barren  boulder  heart — • 
But  high  enough  to  tempt  my  gaze  above 
And  low  enough  to  catch  the  sunshine  of  my  love. 
So  may  my  death  be,  like  the  hill,  sun-riven — 
Holding  its  last  sweet  beam  from  earth  to  catch 
the  first  from  heaven. 


TO  A  MOCKING-BIRD   IN   THE   PINE-TOP. 


B 


IRD  of  the  South — sweet  songster  ! 

Brighter  than  the  evening  star 
That  beams  above  thy  perch  afar 
Thy  song  pours  out,  its  every  bar 

Music'd  with  melody. 
Singing  in  the  pine-top  green, 
Of  all  the  feathered  tribe  the  queen — > 
A  rising,  falling,  rippling  sheen 

Of  flowing  harmony. 

Lute  of  the  South — our  Southland  ! 
Pouring  from  thine  em 'raid  throne 
On  the  pine  tree's  topmost  cone 
Notes  by  mortals  never  known, 

Of  sweet  simplicity. 

What  sunbeams  made  that  twinkling  trill  ? 
What  zephyr  tuned  that  throat,  until 
Its  life  and  breath  and  spirit  fill 

Thy  soul  of  poesy  ? 
286 


from  Tennessee 

Mimic  of  the  South — sly  warbler, 

Hast  thou  caught  the  firefly's  glow 

In  the  sparkle  of  thy  flow, 

Or  gathered  from  the  sunset's  bow 

Thy  shafts  of  rhapsody  ? 
Magnolia  blossoms  in  the  breeze — 
Art  thou  singing  now  of  these 
While  filling  Heaven's  purpling  frieze 
With  incense  musical  ? 

In  that  calm  note,  soft  and  low, 
Dost  thou  see  the  bayou's  flow 
Bespangled  with  the  stars  that  grow 

From  water  lilies  ? 

Or  up  the  green  decked,  wooded  hill 
Where  speeds  the  brook  to  water  mill, 
Is  that  jingling  note  its  trill 

Down  ravine  rushing  ? 

Deeper,  sweeter  flows  the  stream 

All  merry  mad  with  glide  and  gleam 
Until  the  very  woodlands  seem 

To  reel  with  euphony. 
Softly  sweet,  'neath  paling  dome, 
Thou  singest  now  of  that  true  home, 
Where  we  shall  weep  no  more,  nor  roam, 

But  rest  forever. 

Listening  to  the  revery  note 

From  thy  moonlit  perch,  there  float 
Tales  of  other  days  remote, 
Mem'ries  of  chivalry. 
287 


Songs  and  Stories 

Tales  that  tell  of  times  a-gone — 
The  cotton's  banner  'mid  the  corn — 
Of  Charity  that's  ever  born 
'Mid  peace  and  plenty. 

Changing  now  to  deeper  tone 

Comes  a  war-note  from  thy  throne, 
And  sweetness  for  a  season's  flown 

For  martial  measures. 
Short  and  quick  with  bugle  thrill 
The  war-drum  echoes  in  thy  trill— 
The  fife's  fierce  scream  and  trumpet  fill 

Thy  clarion  melody. 

Silently — a  march  in  Saul— 

Thou  changest  now  to  fun'ral  pall  ; 
Thou  mournest  now  for  those  who  fall 

Wearing  the  gray. 
Ay,  weep  ;  for  in  the  rush  of  wrong 
That  followed  with  the  alien  throng, 
Thy  people  needed  every  song 
Thy  heart  could  give. 

Hark  !  another  note  we  hear, 

'Tis  the  plowboy's  whistle  clear, 
As  morning  finds  him  with  his  gear, 

To  yoke  prosperity. 
Then,  as  up  the  sunshine  gleams 
Our  night  of  dread  melts  into  dreams 
Of  harvest  fields  and  peaceful  streams 
And  barns  of  plenty. 
288 


from  Tennessee 

Bird  of  the  South  —  dear  songster, 
Sing  in  the  pine-top,  ever  sing, 
Cause  all  the  southern  air  to  ring, 
Music  and  evergreens  o'er  us  fling 

And  teach  the  religion  of  harmony. 
Sing  in  the  pine-top,  in  that  tree, 
The  emblem  of  eternity  — 
Sing  till  thy  people,  hearing  thee, 

Shall  live  for  immortality. 


A  HARVEST  SONG. 

OTHE  mellow  days  of  autumn 
,     How  I  love  to  see  them  come, 

When  the  harvest  army  marches 
To  the  bittern's  noisy  drum. 

Every  day  is  full  of  sweetness,  every  night  is  full 

of  song  — 
And  the  air  is  full  of  ripeness   as   the   breezes 

sweep  along. 
The    mocking-bird,    awakened   by   the   flood   of 

soothing  light, 
Weaves  a  golden  thread  of  music  in  the  silver 

woof  of  night, 
While  the  rustling  of  a  thousand  flashing  blades 

amid  the  corn, 
Like  an  army  in  the  moonlight  waits  the  reaper 

of  the  morn. 

19  289 


Songs  and  Stories 

O,  the  mellow  days  of  autumn 
How  I  love  to  see  them  come, 

When,  like  an  Indian  princess 
Stands  the  maple,  and  the  gum. 

All  the   earth  is  full  of  beauty,  all  the    sky  in 

azure  fold, 
And  the  sunshine  in  its  softness  melts  in  dreamy 

waves  of  gold. 
The   wild    goose   flying    southward    sounds   his 

startled,  clarion  note, 
And  the  trumpet  of  the  harvest  march  is  in  his 

echoing  throat, 
While  the  flashing  of  a  thousand  cotton  banners* 

'mid  the  corn, 
Like  our  skies,  are  red  at  evening  but  are  silver 

in  the  morn. 

O,  the  mellow  nights  of  autumn 
When  the  harvest  moon  is  queen 

And  the  stars,  like  little  reapers, 
Flash  their  tiny  blades  between. 

How  they  thrill  me  with  a  sweetness  that  is  over- 
sweet  to  last, 

Like  a  glory  of  the  present  in  a  halo  of  the  past, 
And  they  fill  my  heart  with  achings,  with  a  sweet 
and  tender  pain, 

*  The  cotton  bloom  is  white  in  the  morning  and  red  at 
evening. 

290 


from  Tennessee 

Like  the  memory  of  a  music  that  I  ne'er  shall 

hear  again, 
And  they  fill  my  soul  with  longings  and  they  fill 

my  eyes  with  tears, 
Like  a   half-forgotten   laughter   in  the   long-for- 

gotten years. 

O,  the  mellow  nights  of  autumn 
They  are  coming  in  a  throng, 

And  the  harvest  moon  is  with  them 
And  she  sings  the  reaper's  song. 


THE  OLD  MEADOW  SPRING. 

DOWN  through  the  red-top  blooming  in  the 
sun, 

On  to  the  vine-covered  trees, 
A  barefoot  boy  through  the  path  I'd  run 
Like  a  swallow  on  the  evening  breeze. 
Quick  to  the  big  rocks  cropping  from  the  ground 

'Neath  the  trees  where  the  sweet  birds  sing, 
With  a  leap  and  a  bound  I'd  clamber  down 
To  drink  at  the  meadow  spring. 

O,  the  old  meadow  spring, 
To  its  moss-grown  banks  I'd  cling, 
And  with  hat  for  a  gourd  I  would  quaff  like  a  lord 
The  cool,  sparkling  waters  of  the  spring. 
291 


Songs  and  Stories 

Pouring  from  the  rocks  'mid  pebbles  so  white, 

And  fringing  the  moss  with  pearl, 
Then  speeding  away  in  flashes  of  light 

To  the  pool  with  its  eddying  whirl. 
The  wild  mint  wafts  its  odor  from  below 

On  the  sweep  of  the  cool  wind's  wing, 
While  the  dark  shining  row  of  the  blackberries 
grow 

On  the  brink  of  the  meadow  spring. 

O,  the  old  meadow  spring, 
Heaven's  drink  to  man  you  bring, 
With  the  mint  and  the  red  of  the  purpling  berry 

head 
All  mirror'd  in  the  depths  of  the  spring. 

Stretched  on  the  green  grass,  musing  in  the  shade 

(To  the  drip — tinkle — drip,  of  the  stream), 
I  wonder  if  above  such  a  spot  was  made 

For  spirits  in  their  heavenly  dream. 
Watching  the  water-witch  dancing  about 

On  the  waves  in  her  silvery  ring, 
With  a  laugh  and  shout  I'd  put  her  to  rout 

And  plunge  in  the  meadow  spring. 

O,  the  old  meadow  spring, 
How  1  long  once  more  to  fling 
All  my  burdens  aside  in  your  silvery  tide, 
And  be  a  boy  at  the  meadow  spring. 


292 


from  Tennessee 


SLEEPING. 

THEY  are  sleeping  in  the  valley  and  on  the 
glistening  hills, 
And   in   the  wooded  nooks   beside   the  winter's 

frozen  rills. 
They  slumber  in  their  glory  with  the  perfume  on 

their  breath, 
Their  beauty  and  their  brightness  fled  before  the 

touch  of  death. 
Their  bloom  life  is  a  memory — their  sweetness 

but  a  dream 
Of  summer  days  and  shaded  ways,  and  nights 

of  starry  gleam. 

They  are  sleeping  in  the  valley,  but  they'll 

wake  some  joyous  day, 
And  Spring  will  stand  before  us  in  the  bridal 

dress  of  May. 

They  are  sleeping  in  the  valley,  and  they  wait 

the  Master's  call — 
The  rose-buds  of  our  hearth-stone  and  the  lilies 

of  our  hall, 
The  violets  that  bloomed  down  in  the  hot-house 

of  our  heart, 

293 


Songs  and  Stories 

The   blue-bells   of   our   cradles — how  the   quick 

tears  upward  start ! 
Their  child-life  is  a  memory — their  visit  but  a 

dream 
Of  childish  ways  and  prattling  days — how  long 

ago  they  seem  ! 

They  are  sleeping  in  the  valley,  but  they'll 

wake  with  joyous  glee 
When  the  Master  holds  His  dear  hands  out, 

and  says  :  "  Come  unto  me." 


TO  THE  SPIRIT  OF  MAY. 

AND  now  she  stands  upon  enthroning  hills 
And    tosses    wreaths    of    roses    o'er    the 
world, 

With  banner'd  bloom  about  her  head  unfurl'd 
And  at  her  feet  the  music  loving  rills 
While  winter's  lingering  stirrup-cup  with  frothy 
clouds  she  fills. 

The  blue  sky  hangs  above  her  like  a  veil, 
And,  dropping  low,  fringed  with  divinest  lace, 
It  adds  a  softened  shyness  to  that  face, 
Which,  like  a  maid  in  love,  now  pink,  now  pale, 
Needs  but  one  look  from  earth  to  blush  and  tell 

its  love-blown  tale. 

294 


from  Tennessee 

One  slipper'd   foot,   flushed   as   the   blossoming 

trees, 

Is  thrust,  half-naked,  in  the  bloom  and  spray 
Of   orchards,   where   throughout   the   dreamy 

day 

The  sunshine  glints  the  wings  of  weaving  bees, 
And  all  her  children,  music  mad,  do  touch  their 
thousand  keys. 

And  baby  vines,  awakening,  have  wound 
And  twined  a  bracelet  bloom  about  her  arms, 
While  'round  her  waist,  'neath  nestling  charms, 
A  russet  belt,  with  beaded  berries  bound — 
The  sun-maid's  belt,  dropped  at  her  bath,  which 
lover  earth  had  found. 

And  Music  dreams  and  pines  and  sighs 
Within  her  eyes.     And  Poesy  is  there, 
Prophetic-faced,  with  sun-red,  Sappho  hair. 
And  Hope  above,  star-vestal'd  vigil  keeps 
And   throws   a   ray  of   ripeness   o'er   that  face 
where  unborn  Harvest  sleeps. 


295 


Songs  and  Stories 


CLOUDS. 

O  CLOUDS,  ye  are  ships  in  the  infinite  blue 
,     Of  the  ocean  of  heaven  —  and  ye  sail, 

And  ye  sail 
To  the  harbor-gate,  open  to  welcome  you  through 

In  the  west  —  to  the  harbor-gate,  pale 
As  a  moon-ray  reflected  from  the  sea 
To  your  sail. 

O,  clouds,  ye  are  ships,  and  above  you  the  dome 
Of  an  infinite  heaven  —  and  ye  float, 

And  ye  float 
To  the  beacon-star  burning  to  welcome  you  home 

To  your  rest.     And  lovers  will  gloat 
O'er  eyes  that  are  blue  and  wet  as  the  waves 
Where  you  float. 


SUNSET  ON  THE  TENNESSEE. 

THE  valley  rolls  to  the  river 
And  the  river  is  tinged  with  fire, 
As  the  beams  of  the  sunset  quiver 
Like  the  strings  of  a  golden  lyre. 
And  the  hills,  like  sentinels  olden, 
296 


from  Tennessee 

In  burnished  steel  they  glow, 
While  a  kiss  of  the  sunset,  golden, 
They  toss  to  the  valley  below. 

The  valley  rolls  to  the  river, 

But  the  cheek  of  the  river  is  wan, 
Like  the  lips  of  a  maid,  when  the  giver 

Of  the  kiss  in  the  twilight  is  gone. 
But  the  sentinel  hills  are  bolder  ; 

Like  giants  in  gloom  they  grow, 
And  with  forest  of  guns  at  the  shoulder, 

They  guard  the  valley  below. 


MORNING. 

TIP-TOE  on  morning  star,  'mid  purpling  light, 
The  day  queen  throws  her  kisses  to  the 
world, 

Then  stands  abashed  a  moment,  as  in  plight 
From  maiden  shyness,  while  around  is  furl'd 
The  fleecy  lace  of  clouds,  with  skirts  of  blue 
Trailing  adown  to  hills  of  azure  hue. 

A  sudden  flirting  of  a  dew-wet  wing, 

As  out  from  leafy  bush  or  hedge-thatched  lair 
The  throbbing  throats  at  once  begin  to  sing 
And  distant  pipes  fall  on  the  sweet,  cool  air. 
The  cattle  rise  from  shaded  beds  along, 
And  add  their  cow-bell  cymbals  to  the  song. 
297 


Songs  and  Stories 

Deep  spreads  the  blush  around  Aurora's  cheeks, 

Purpling  the  bloom  of  ripen'd  lips  —  and  then 
Closer  she  draws  her  drapery  as  she  seeks 
To  hide  her  beauty  from  the  eyes  of  men. 
And  lo  !  the  jealous  sun  leaps  up  to  fold 
Her  melting  glory  in  his  arms  of  gold. 


UNDER  THE  PINES. 

UNDER  the  pines  with  her  hair  in  a  tangle, 
The  skies  in  her  eyes  and  the  stars  beam- 

ing out, 
One  rosy  hand  clasping  the  green  boughs  above 

her, 

One  daintily  tossing  the  flowers  about, 
The  Graces   peep  out   from   the  depths  of   her 

dimples, 
The  Naiads  are  born  where  her   eye-glances 

stray- 
Under   the   pines,  though   the    long  years  have 

vanished, 
Under  the  pines  she  is  standing  to-day  ! 

Under  the  pines  !  —  ah,  forever  and  ever 

The  Nymphs  build  their  booths  and  the  Naiads 

their  cave, 

And  there  'neath  the  bowers  she  is  tossing  her 
flowers  — 

2Q8 


from  Tennessee 

For   Time   cannot   take   back   the   picture  he 

gave  ! 
O,  life   with    your   strife,  O,  death   with    your 

darkness, 

Ye  have  taken  the  tinsel  and  left  me  the  gold  ! 
For   deep   in    my   heart   where   the   evergreens 

hide  her, 
Still  tossing  her  flowers  she  stands  as  of  old. 


THE  MUSIC  OF  THE  PINES. 

FAR  away,  like  fairy  bugles,  when  the  shades 
of  night  are  on, 
Comes  again  the  memory-music  of  my  childhood 

days  agone,  agone, 
Comes   again   the   sheen    of   hillside  where  the 

long-leaf  needles  lay, 
And   the    spots    of    softened    sunshine   flecking 

through  the  latticed  way, 
Come  again  the  distant  echoes  of  my  playmates 

from  their  shrines, 
And  they  come  with  elfin  music,  with  the  music 

of  the  pines, 
With    the    misty,    memory-music   of    the    band 

among  the  pines. 

Once  again  their  half-heard  laughter  floats  from 
out  the  past  to  rise 

299 


Songs  and  Stories 

As  an  echo  from  hereafter  in  that  playground  'mid 
the  skies  ; 

Once  again  the  resinous  odors  through  my  dream- 
ing senses  spread 

As  the  frankincense  from  flowers  that  we  buried 
with  our  dead, 

And  I  stop  my  work  to  listen  to  the  bells  in  mem- 
ory's mines, 

Tinkling  on  the  swelling  hillside  to  the  music  of 
the  pines, 

To  the  half-heard,  half-dreamt  music  of  the  band 
among  the  pines. 

Now  I  see  the  yellow  sunlight  sifted  through  the 

sieve  of  spears, 
And  I  hear  the  zephyr  lullabies  of  long  forgotten 

years. 
How  the  band  above  me  thunders  as  the  swaying 

tree  tops  shake  ! 
And  now  it  falls  as  calmly  sweet  as  starlight  on 

a  lake. 
And  as  the  passing  pinions  sweep  above  in  lilting 

lines, 
I  almost  see  the  angels  in  that  band  among  the 

pines, 
See  the  angels  as  they  sing  and  swing  amid  the 

swaying  pines. 

O,  how  often  in  the  glory  of  the  days  forever 
gone, 

300 


from  Tennessee 

I  have  drunk  the  crooning  story  of  that  mimic 
Alpine  horn. 

There's  a  solace  in  its  soughing  that  no  earthly 
music  brings, 

There's  a  cadence  in  its  wooing  never  heard  in 
court  of  kings, 

There's  a  rhythm  in  the  rustle  of  its  low  en- 
chanting lines, 

For  heaven's  sweetest  zephyrs  made  the  music 
of  the  pines, 

Swept  the  lyre  of  lyric  needles  in  that  band 
among  the  pines. 

I  have  heard  the  martial  music  of  a  conquering 

army  come 
With  the  blare  of  boastful  bugle  and  the  thunder 

of  the  drum. 
I    have    mused    upon   the    measures   of  a  sweet 

Italian  band 

Till  my  reeling  spirit  wandered  as  a  bird  in  Eden- 
land  ; 
But  there  is  no  earthly  music  e'er  conceived  in 

mortal  minds 
Like   the    music    of   my   childhood  in    the  band 

among  the  pines, 
Like  the  music  that  I  ne'er  shall  hear  again  from 

out  the  pines. 


301 


Songs  and  Stories 


THE  EVENING  STAR. 

HEART  of  the  sunset  sky- 
Sleeping  so  quietly, 

Flushed  with  the  pinkness  of  sleep  and  of  rest. 
Heart  of  the  sleeping  sky  — 
Throbbing  with  ecstasy  — 
Pulsing  the  pink  through  the  breast  of  the  west. 

Soul  of  the  dying  sky  — 

Dying  so  quietly, 
Melting  and  merging  in  shadows  of  night. 

Soul  of  the  dying  sky, 

Dying  —  yet  gloriously, 
Living  again  in  thy  life  and  thy  light. 


TO  A  MORNING  GLORY. 

THOU   art  the    dream    of   Nature    when   she 
sleeps 
And  dreams  of  youth-time  and  sweet  April's 

eyes, 
And  slum'bring  now,  lo  !  'round  her  breast  there 

creeps 
This  pictured  vision  of  departed  skies. 


from  Tennessee 

Departed  skies,  concaved,  with  clouds  of 

snow 
Cerulean-depthed,  that  left  us  long  ago. 

And  thou  art  Nature's  memory  when  she  wakes 
All  conscience-clear  and  weeping  o'er  the  past, 
Clear-visioned,  keen,  her  yearning  soul  partakes 
Of  that  which  was,  but  was  too  pure  to  last. 
And  so  she  holds,  with  soft  light  break- 

ing low, 
Holds  to  her  heart  the  hopes  of  long  ago. 


THE  SUMMER  OF  LONG  AGO. 

DO  you  know  the  land,  the  fairest  land 
In  the  mythical  realms  of  old  ? 
Where  the  earth  and  the  air,  and  the  flowers  rare 

All  sleep  'neath  a  sun  of  gold  ? 
Where  the  elf-king's  bugle  in  winding  note 
Drowns  the  dreamy  drum  in  the  black  bee's 

throat, 
And  the  fairy  queen  floats  in  her  peach-bloom 

boat? 

The  fire-flies  dance  where  the  lily-maids  meet 
And  the  flowers  are  dreams  that  lie  at  your  feet 
In  the  Summer  of  Long  Ago. 

Do  you  know  the  land,  the  sweetest  land, 
In  the  rhythmical  realms  of  old  ? 
3°3 


Songs  and  Stories 

Where    the    moon    and    her    beams    bring   the 

romancing  gleams 
Of  a  love  you  never  have  told  ? 
Where  the  star  king's  horsemen  in  platoons  of 

light 
Bring  your   soul-secret   love   on  a  palfrey  of 

white, 
And  her  lips  meet  your  lips  ere  she  taketh  her 

flight  ? 

The  will-o'-wisp  drops  like  a  star  from  the  sun, 
And  the  brooklets  are  poems  that   rhyme  as 
they  run 

In  the  Summer  of  Long  Ago. 

Have  you  seen  the  queen  of  that  beautiful  land 

In  the  radiant  realms  of  old  ? 
With  eyes  like  the  stars  of  the  May-pop  bars, 

And  throat  like  the  lily's  fold  ? 
Queen  of  your  home  in  that  yet-to-be  day, 

To  hold  you  in  bondage  forever  and  aye, 
Yet  to  love  and  to  cherish,  to  bless  and  obey — 

And  queen  even  now  in  a  kingdom  above — 
The  little  sweetheart  you  first  learned  to  love 
In  the  Summer  of  Long  Ago. 


304 


from  Tennessee 


TRUTH  IN  BEAUTY. 

"  Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty  "—that  is  all 
Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know. 

— Keats — Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn. 

(To  a  gifted  organist.) 

SOOTHED  is  my  spirit  when  you  touch  the 
keys, 

And,  like  a  cloud,  my  soul  floats  far  away  ; 
My  throbbing  fancies  throng  as  dreaming  bees 
To  suck  the  flowers  that  spring  up  when  you 

play — 

O,  that  I  thus  at  last  might  sip  and  pass  'mid 
sweets  away  ! 

Whence  comes  such  rapturous  pain  from  simple 

bars, 

Such  tender-hurting,  joy-bewidow'd  sweet  ? 
Such  pouring  glory — cataract  of  stars — 

Bubbles  of  beauty  bursting  at  my  feet, 
Or  floating  into  dreamland  streams  where  Fay 
and  Fancy  meet  ? 

The  rainbow  gleams  along  that  splendid  arch 
Where  from  your  fingers  fall  the  quiv'ring 
drops. 
20  3°5 


Songs  and  Stories 

And  now,  sunset ;  and  now  the  misty  march 
Of  timbrel-twinkling  planets,  o'er  the  tops 
Of  organ-chords,  aeolian-peaked,  with  star-em- 
blazoned stops. 

Above  the  earth,  above  the  wheeling  flight 

Of  mute,  yet  clearest  pealing  minstrelsy — 
One    glimpse   of    that  which    made    creation 

bright. 

One  glimpse  of  first  love's  sun  of  ecstacy — 
Then  down  to  earth  where  musick'd  streams  purl 
with  pebbled  symphony. 

O,  thus  to  live — thus  ever,  ever  live, 

Wedded  to  Art,  with  handmaid  Hope  at  side, 
Crushing  her  lips  with  lips  that  dare  to  give 
The  winter  tempest  for  the  summer  tide — 
For  sweetest  of  all  weddings  yet  is  that  where 
Art  is  bride. 

O,  thus  to  love,  forever,  ever  love, 

Changeless  in  beauty  and  star-lived  in  grace. 
To  hear  but  the  rustle  of  her  robes  above — 
To  catch  the  star-beams  from  her  fountained 

face — 

For   dearer   is    Art's   finger-kiss   than    Passion's 
whole  embrace  ! 

O  Faith,  O  Hope — the  poet  and  his  sky — 
O   Joy,  O    Death — the   bondman   and   the 
freed — 

306 


from  Tennessee 

O  Love,  you,  too,  must  bow  beneath  that  eye 
Where  naught  of  earth,  or  earthy,  hath  a 

breed  — 

For  infant  Truth  a  greater  hero   is  than  gray- 
haired  Deed, 

Truth  which  comes  in  Beauty,  as  to-night 
Comes  this  sweet  Truth  in  simple  harmony- 

Calming  the  quick  waves  of  my  soul's  affright, 

And  from  the  depths  of  an  unsounded  sea, 
Starting  this  broken  wave  above  a  sea  of  melody. 


THE  FAITH  OF  OLD. 

THE  years  with  their  changes  come,  and  the 
years  with  their  plans  unfold, 
But  give  me  the  peace  my  heart  hath  known  in 

the  sweet  dream-days  of  old. 
It  comes  to  my  soul  to-night,  like  the  dream  of  a 

dream  at  dawn, 
Like  the  smell  of  the  rain  on  the  ripen'd  grain,  at 

the  first  flush  of  the  morn, 
Then  rush  with  the  maddened  throng,  and  battle 

for  fame  and  gold, 
And  furl  your  flags  'mid  the  wrath  of  wrong  —  I'll 

cling  to  the  peace  of  old. 

The  years  with  their  follies  come,  with  their  fol- 
lies and  then  their  woe  ; 
3°7 


Songs  and  Stories 

But  give  me  the  hope  of  the  years  I  knew  in  the 

summer  of  long  ago. 
It  comes  to  my  heart  to-night  like  the  song  of  the 

birds  and  the  bees, 
Like  the  blue  of  the  skies  that  over  them  rise  and 

the  sway  of  the  leaf  in  the  trees. 
Then  follow  the  fickle  throng,  and  clamor  both 

loud  and  bold, 
And    drown    Truth's   voice   with   the   drums  of 

Wrong — I'll  cling  to  the  hope  of  old. 

The  years  with  their  visions  come,  and  go,  as  a 

tale  that  is  told — 
But  give  me  the  faith  my  mother  taught  in  the 

bright,  glad  days  of  old. 
It  comes  to  my  soul  to-night,  and  I  know  there's 

a  God  above, 
Else  why  should  1  long,  in  an  infinite  song,  to  tell 

of  the  depths  of  love  ? 
Then  kneel  to  the  tinseled  knave,  and  offer  your 

soul  at  his  shrine — 
You  bind  your  wreaths  on  the  brow  of  a  slave — 

I'll  cling  to  the  hand  Divine. 


308 


from  Tennessee 


CHRISTMAS  MORN. 

IN  the  beauty  of  its  breaking,  in  the  music  of  its 
dawn, 

Like    an    angel    chorus    'waking    when    the 
Heavenly  day  is  born,— 

Comes  again  the  day  of  promise, 

Comes  again  the  Christmas  morn. 

Beam,  bright  Eastern  sky  in  glory,  till  our  doubt 

clouds  roll  away  ; 

Ring,  sweet  Christmas  bells,  the  story, — ring  for- 
ever and  for  aye, 

Till  our  living  be  but  loving 
And  our  dying  be  but  day. 


ALONE. 

MY  love  and  I  sailed  out  to  sea 
When  the  dream  days  came  with  purpling 
sky, 

And  her  laugh  was  the  winds  at  play,  to  me, 
And  her  eyes  the  stars  I  guided  by. 
Her  hand  touched  mine,  'mid  the  breaker's  roar, 
And  new  strength  came  to  the  lagging  oar — 
3°9 


Songs  and  Stories 

Her  lips  met  mine  in  the  tempest's  blast 
And  new  life  flashed  in  the  straining  mast. 

My  love  and  I  sailed  out  to  sea, 

And  life  was  full  and  sweet  for  me, 

Till  our  boat  plunged  under  a  death-wave  dark- 

And  I  sailed  alone  in  a  drifting  barque  ! 

Now  the  skies  are  gray,  and  the  winds  at  play 

Mourn  drearily  o'er  the  sea  all  day, 

And  I  look  in  vain  through  the  fog  and  rain 

For  the  wave  that  will  bring  me  to  her  again. 


TO   WHITTIER,  DEAD. 

AY,  speed  thou  on,  gray  voyager, 
But  not  to  a  breezeless  sea  ! 
Nor  shall  oblivion  claim  the  soul 
That  lived  and  loved  in  thee. 

The  heart  that  throbbed  for  others, 
The  mind  that  thought  no  wrong, 

The  lips  that  always  spoke  the  truth 
Through  soul  of  courage  strong, 

O,  these  shall  live  forever, 
God  gave  them,  not  to  die, 

But  sweetly  bloom  above  thy  tomb 
Through  all  eternity. 

310 


from  Tennessee 


THE  CHURCH  OF  THE  HEART. 

DEEP  in  the  dales  of  the  human  heart, 
Deep  in  the  deils  of  the  soul, 
Where  the  springs  of  the  innermost  passions  start, 
Where  the  brooks  of  Hope  and  Happiness  part 

And  the  flowers  of  life  unfold, 
Is  a  temple  whose  vespers  rise  and  swell, 
Yet  it  hath  no  priest  and  it  hath  no  bell. 

'Tis  loftier  far  than  the  dome  of  the  sky, 

'Tis  deeper  down  than  the  sea, 
It  catches  the  gleam  of  the  stars  as  they  fly 
And  the  music  they  make  as  they  wander  by 

With  their  heavenly  minstrelsy, 
Music — but  whence  no  mortal  can  tell — 
For  it  hath  no  priest  and  it  hath  no  bell. 

No  glitter  of  tinsel,  no  blight  of  gold, 

No  fashion  of  rank  and  lies, 
No  creeds  in  their  coffined  urns  of  old, 
Where  the  dust  lies  deep  on  their  hearts  of  mold, 

No  altar  where  prides  arise — 
And  yet  no  cathedrals  in  beauty  excel — 
Tho'  it  hath  no  priest  and  it  hath  no  bell. 

And  here  hath  the  crushed  and  the  desolate 

prayed 

From  the  depth  of  their  soul's  despair, 
311 


Songs  and  Stories 

And  hither  hath  sad-eyed  Sorrow  strayed, 
And  outcast  Hope  hath  sobbed  and  laid 

Her  head  on  the  altar  there. 
And  never  Anathema  rings  their  knell, 
For  it  hath  no  priest  and  it  hath  no  bell! 

O,  glorious  church  of  the  heart  divine — 
(O,  conscience — priest  to  us  all  !) 
High  o'er  the  world  may  your  sweet  dome  shine- 
With  your  silent  priest  in  this  heart  of  mine — 

And  the  image  of  Love  on  your  wall. 
O,  Church  of  the  heart — 'tis  there  God  dwells 
Tho'  it  hath  no  priests  and  it  hath  no  bells  ! 


THE  CHRIST-STAR  HAS  RISEN. 


T 


FLIGHT  and  Christmas  Eve- 
Sky  bright  with  starry  weave, 
Moonlight  and  music  o'er  earth  and  in  air, 
Sweet  bell  and  swelling  note, 
Heart-hopes  that  rise  and  float 
Faith-winged  to  heaven  in  flash-lights  of  prayer. 

Sunrise  and  Christmas  morn, 
Love  lies  so  lowly  born — 
Heaven  and  Human  in  meekness  have  met ; 
Hope — tho'  the  light  be  low, 
Faith — through  the  blight  and  blow — 

The  Christ-star  has  risen,  it  never  will  set ! 
312 


from  Tennessee 


A  MEMORY. 

OTHE  mem'ry  of  the  mistletoe  that  graced 
that  Christmas  scene  ! 
And  the  berries  in  the  holly  wreath  like  rosebuds 

red  between, 

And  the  smell  of   fragrant  cedar,   even    yet  an 
evergreen. 

O,  the  beauty  of  the  dainty  hands  that  twined 

the  holly  through, 
And  the  snowy  neck  and  cheeks  that  made  the 

roses  blush  anew. 
Now  I  never  smell  the  cedar  but  I  see  the  maiden, 

too. 

O,  the  glory  and  the  story  in  those  eyes  of  tender 

trust  ! 
Not  all  the  world  of  sermons  can  convince  me 

they  are  dust, 
For  the  starlight  lives  forever  and  love's  mem'ry 

hath  no  rust  ! 

Up  in   heaven  with   the    angels  she  is  twining 

wreaths  to-night. 
In  her  Father's  many  mansions  'mid  the  dazzling 

glory-light 
She  has  laid  aside  a  love-wreath  for  one  tired  in 

the  fight. 

3*3 


Songs  and  Stories 


EULALEE. 

Eulalee,  sweet  Eulalee, 
The  years  have  passed,  but  still  I  see 
Your  laughing  eyes  'neath  snood  of  red, 
And  the  bending  skies  of  blue  o'erhead. 
The  partridge  calls  'mid  the  dreamy  corn, 
For  the  night  dew  falls  and  the  shades  creep  on, 
And  I  say  "  good  night,"  for  the  grass  is  wet, 
And  your  last  words  are — "  I  love  you  yet !" 

Eulalee,  sweet  Eulalee, 
The  stars  now  roll  'twixt  you  and  me, 
But  I  see  your  snood  through  the  milky  way, 
And  your  eyes  beyond  the  starry  ray. 
Your  laughter  comes  with  the  sunbeams  free 
And  the  dews  that  fall  are  your  tears  for  me. 
And  up  to  heaven,  with  hot  cheeks  wet, 
I  look  and  hear — "  I  love  you  yet !" 


A  MORNING  RIDE. 

AWAY  !  away  !  the  coming  day 
Breaks  o'er  the  East  in  fans  of  gray, 
And  purpling  high  the  glowing  sky, 
Blushes  before  the  Master's  eye. 


from  Tennessee 

Steady,  Marie  !  my  rein  is  free, 
Canter  a  bit  in  coltish  glee, 
Your  easy  gallop  is  wine  to  me. 

Away  !  away  !  the  new-mown  hay 

Has  scented  all  the  valleys  gay. 

The  cool,  moist  air  is  thick,  but  rare 

With  odor  never  known  elsewhere. 

Come,  now,  Marie  !  you  change,  I  see, 
To  single-foot,  so  swift  and  free — 
A  palace  car  is  a  cart  to  thee  ! 

Away  !  away  !  no  stop  nor  stay. 

Hark  !     Heard  you  e'er  such  music,  pray  ? 

What  melting  rout  now  falls  about 

To  tell  the  mocking-bird  is  out  ! 

Come,  come,  Marie  !    I'm  watching  thee  ! 

A  fickle  miss  I  fear  you  be 

To  change  to  running  walk  with  me. 

Away  !  away  !  ah  !  primrose  gay 
You're  dressed,  I  see,  for  the  race  to-day, 
And  in  the  bloom  of  his  feath'ry  plume 
The  alder  lends  you  his  perfume. 

Then  go,  Marie  !  show  them,  for  me, 
How  the  swallow  skims  the  crystal  sea — 
The  pacing  queen  one  day  you'll  be  ! 


Songs  and  Stories 


IMMORTALITY. 

HOW  like  a  second  nature  to  our  souls 
Is  immortality.     'Tis  not  of  earth, 
But  comes  a  ray  from  heaven,  that  unfolds 
The  budding  instinct  of  another  birth. 

Who  from  the  void  can  make  a  man  but  God  ? 

And  if  God  make  him,  shall  He  then  ordain 
That,  having  breathed  upon  the  senseless  clod, 

Back  to  the  void  shall  turn  His  work  again  ? 
Through  endless  time  no  more  nor  yet  no  less 

Than  making  man  for  woe  and  wretchedness  ? 

Away  the  thought !     The   deathless    Deed  that 
springs 

From  out  its  dust-encumbered  home  of  clay, 
And,  like  a  beam  of  morning,  folds  its  wings 

Only  'mid  the  twilight  of  a  perfect  day — 
This  cannot  die  !     'Tis  part  of  God  himself, 

A  heart-throb  of  Infinity  ! 

The  Thought  that  spans  the  arch  of  silent  stars. 
Scaling  the  rugged  battlements,  where  rise 

The  roof  above  time's  own  grim  prison  bars — 
Searching  beneath  the  shadows  of  eternal  skies 

For  captive  Truth — this  cannot  die  !     'Tis  God's 

own  child 
Exiled  to  earth,  now  seeking  home  again  ! 


from  Tennessee 


LIFE'S  CHRISTMAS. 

THE  faint,  sweet  light  breaks  over  the  hills, 
To  waken  the  chords  of  memory's  bells 
And  bring  us  Christmas  morning. 
O,  Christmas  morning,  fresh  and  clear, 
Is  this  your  token  of  a  glad  New  Year  ? 
Is  this  your  emblem  of  a  good  new  cheer 
To  come  with  your  hallowed  dawning  ? 

The  glad  east  glows  with  resplendent  beam 
And  wakens  from  sleep  a  childhood's  dream 

Of  a  Christmas  gone  forever. 
O,  childhood's  Christmas,  now  no  more, 
Come  from  the  sheen  of  that  evergreen  shore  ! 
Come  with  your  faith  and  your  hope  of  yore — 

Come  with  your  honest  endeavor, 

The  bold,  bright  sun  mounts  up  to  his  throne 
With  eagle  speed  through  the  paling  zone, 

And  manhood's  Christmas  hangs  o'er  us. 
O,  manhood's  Christmas,  bold  and  strong, 
Give  us  your  boldness  to  battle  the  wrong, 
Give  us  your  power  the  fight  to  prolong — 

Shine  in  your  glory  before  us. 

The  pale  west  glows  with  a  purpling  light, 
That  rolls  in  serried  columns  bright, 
Where  the  day  king's  banners  rally. 
3*7 


Songs  and  Stories 

But  now  'tis  gone,  and  night  is  nigh  ; 
O,  then  may  our  good  deeds  glitter  on  high, 
And  our  past  pure  thoughts  bespangle  our  sky 
To  light  our  way  through  the  valley. 


BEAUTY. 

SWEET  is  the  grace  of  beauty,  and  it  holds 
The    imprisoned    earth   within    its   radiant 

folds. 

It  steals  upon  us  like  the  rosy  hue 
Of  morning's  blush,  and  while  the  sweet  cool 

dew 

Moistens  and  freshens  the  dead  grass  of  our  hope, 
It  bursts  like  love-stars  on  our  horoscope. 
Like  Dian's  locks,  her  flashing  charms  deter 
Yet  make  the  light  by  which  we  worship  her. 
The  eyes  of  children,  flute  notes  of  a  bird, 
Flowers  that  'round  them  beading  dewdrops  gird, 
Skies  of  blue  and  gold  at  wedding  morn, 
Lips  that  touch  when  sweet  young  love  is  born, 
These  strew  her  pathway,  Iris-crowned  they  rise 
When  beauty's  sun  lights  up   life's  'wakening 
skies. 


318 


from  Tennessee 


IT  CAN  NOT  BE. 

IT  can  not  be  that  this  poor  life  shall  end  us  ! 
God's  words  are  truthful  and  His  ways  are 

just. 

He  would  not  here  to  sin  and  sorrow  send  us, 
And   then  blot  out  our   souls  with   "dust  to 

dust;" 

Saving  our  clay,  and  back  to  Nature  giving, 
Smothering  our  soul  ere  it  hath  had  its  living. 
It  can  not  be  ! 

It  can  not  be  that  One  so  just  and  perfect 

Would  make  a  perfect  universe,  and  plan 
The  star  of  all  should  be  at  last  imperfect — 
Life,  yet  leave  that  life  half-lived  in  wretched 

man. 

Forever  lives  the  gross— the  dead  material — 
Forever  dies  the  life— the  spark  imperial  ? 
It  can  not  be  ! 

It  can  not  be,  for  life  is  more  than  living ; 

It  can  not  be,  for  death  is  more  than  dream. 
Think  ye  to  clod  God  daily  life  is  giving, 

Yet  from  the  grave  shut  out  the  grander  beam  ? 
Night  is  but  day  ere  it  hath  had  its  dawning — 
Death  a  brief  night,  and  waiteth  for  the  morning, 
Which  soon  shall  be  ! 


Songs  and  Stories 

Thou  art  not  dead,  dear  one,  I  know  thou  livest, 
Thou  art  not  dead,  for  still  the   bright  stars 

shine. 

Thou  art  not  dead,  for  yet  the  live  sun  giveth 
Light — and  had  he   e'er  so   sweet  a  light  as 

thine  ? 
Good-night ! — good-bye,  were  sorrow's  grave  of 

sorrow  ! 

Good-night  ! — for   we    shall    live    and    love    to- 
morrow, 

Because  God  lives  ! 


A  LITTLE  CRY  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

A  LITTLE  cry  in  the  night, 
And  fainter  still  at  the  dawn, 
And  the  shadows  creep — then  endless  sleep, 
Before  the  day  is  gone. 

A  little  cry  in  the  night, 

So  weak  and  yet  so  clear ; 
For  many  a  day  has  passed  away 

And  yet  that  cry  I  hear. 

That  little  cry  in  the  night—- 
With the  pleading  eyes  of  blue — 

Wondering  why,  with  their  little  cry, 
They  must  live  and  suffer  too. 
320 


from  Tennessee 

Must  suffer  and  then  must  sleep, 
Tho'  their  day  had  just  begun — 

A  little  pain,  then  night  again, 
And  their  little  task  undone. 

A  little  cry  in  the  night — 
A  clear,  sweet  voice  at  even  : 

"  My  little  cry  was  just  good-bye, 
I'm  waiting  for  you  in  heaven." 


'TIS  BUT  A  DREAM. 

DEEP  in  the  night  a  timid,  pleading  voice, 
A  curly  head  above  my  pillow  bent, 
A  sob,  partaking  part  of  Hope's  rejoice, 

And  part  of  Doubt's  despair  and  sad  lament. 
Dear  nestling  head — sweet  sleep  !    The  first  sun- 
beam : 
"  O,  Father,  I'm  so  glad  'twas  but  a  dream  !" 

Methinks  I,  too,  shall  wake  some  gracious  morn, 
After  life's  dream    and    death's   deep  hushed 
night, 

And  as  God's  presence  ushers  in  the  dawn, 
And  His  smile  makes  an  aureole  of  light, 

Then  will  the  past  a  fretful  vision  seem  : 

"  O,  Father,  I'm  so  glad  'twas  but  a  dream  !" 


21 


32I 


Songs  and  Stories 


THE  PINES  OF  MONTEREY. 


o, 


SHADOW  in  a  maiden's  eye 
Is  love  that  once  has  been  ! 
O,  sweet  moon-rainbow  in  the  sky 

That  shuts  our  poor  life  in  ! 
I  see  the  young  morn  blushing,  I  see  the  cheek 

of  May 

Come  paling,  pinking,  flecking,  flushing — 
Through  the  pines  of  Monterey. 

Dear  evergreens  of  memory- 
Sweet  garlands  of  the  past — 
The  festooned  frame  of  pictured  sky 

That  will  forever  last  ! 
I  hear  the  faint  bells  ringing,  I  feel  the  breath  of 

May 

Come  soughing,  soughing,  sobbing,  singing — 
Through  the  pines  of  Monterey. 

O,  voices  of  the  present  day, 

Vain  sounds  upon  a  blast — 

Leave  me,  let  me  weep  away 

The  sweet  tears  of  the  past. 
1  hear  her  dear  voice  calling,   I  hear  her  voice 

to-day 

Come  laughing,  ling'ring,  falt'ring,  falling — • 
Through  the  pines  of  Monterey. 


from  Tennessee 


TO  AN  AMERICAN  BOY. 

BE  manly,  lad — your  folks  have  made 
Their  way  by  work  and  waiting, 
Be  manly,  lad — a  spade's  a  spade 

Though  it  hath  a  silver  plating. 
For  all  must  work  or  all  must  steal — 

What's  idleness  but  stealing  ? 
To  each  will  come  his  woe  and  weal 

His  weak  or  strong  revealing. 
And  work  makes  brains,  but  error's  chains 

Are  forged  in  fashion's  idleness  ! 

Be  honest,  lad — you  weaker  grow 

From  gain  that's  falsely  gotten. 
Be  honest,  lad — what's  outward  show 

When  all  within  is  rotten  ? 
For  each  must  live  or  each  must  die — 

What's  honor  lost,  but  dying  ? 
To  live  with  Truth  and  you  a  lie  !— 

Was  ever  death  more  trying  ? 
And  Truth  makes  men — but  falsehood's  den 

Is  the  home  of  dwarfs  and  pigmies ! 


3^3 


Songs  and  Stories 


OUR  BOB. 

(Introducing  Governor  Robert  L.  Taylor,  in  his  famous 
lecture,  "  The  Fiddle  and  the  Bow.") 

WITH  humor  as  sweet  as  our  Basin 
When  the  clover  bloom  gathers  the  dew, 
And  pathos  as  deep  as  our  valley 

When  the  clouds  shut  the  stars  from  our  view, 
With  wisdom  as  rich  and  as  fertile 

As  our  plains  when  they  first  feel  the  plow, 
And  wit  like  the  tapestry  frostwork 

That  hangs  on  the  Great  Smoky's  brow, 
With  grand  thoughts  as  strong  as  our  mountains 

And  tender  ones  sweetly  that  flow, 
Like  the  music  that  steals  o'er  our  senses 

At  his  touch  of  "  The  Fiddle  and  Bow," 
The  bee  that  hath  sucked  every  blossom 

Each  Tennessee  flower  to  rob 
And  stored  up  the  rich,  golden  honey 

In  a  genius  that's  ours — Our  Bob  ! 


from  Tennessee 


TO  BURNS. 

THERE  is  no  death  for  genius,  for  it  leaps, 
Fount-like,   from    source   to   limpid  depths 
again. 
There  is  no  death  for  genius,  for  it  sleeps 

To  wake  refreshed  in   each   new  life's  sweet 

pain. 
O,   Burns,  how    rich    and    sweet  thy  stream  of 

song, 
Pouring   from    mountain    dale    and    hawthorn 

glen, 

Bright  as  the  channel  where  Ayr  flashed  along, 
Deep  as  the  sea  beyond  Ben  Lomond's  ken. 
Bubbling,  it  bursts  out  like  thy  mountain  springs, 
Out  from   the   cool    depths  of   great  nature's 

mart, 

Slaking  the  fevered  thirst  our  life  toil  brings, 
Reflecting  all  the  star-domes  of  our  heart. 
Here  at  thy  fount,  O,  let  me  drink  and  know 
That  God  still  reigns  and  man  is  king  below. 


325 


Songs  and  Stories 


WORK  THROUGH  IT  ALL. 

HOPE,  tho'  misfortune  o'ertake  you, 
Smile,  tho'  you  go  to  the  wall, 
Bend  to  the  blast  that  would  break  you, 
But  work,  aye,  work  through  it  all. 

Weep,  when  the  cloud  of  your  sorrow 
Comes  with  its  mist  and  its  pall, 

But  tears  make  your  rainbow  to-morrow 
If  you  work  as  you  weep — through  it  all. 

Give,  for  you  grow  with  the  giving, 
Live,  but  with  love  at  your  call, 

Be  brave,  be  a  man  in  your  living, 
And  work  as  a  man  through  it  all. 

Look  up,  as  the  weaver  of  laces, 
Your  pattern  hung  high  on  the  wall, 

Your  soul  on  the  beauty  it  traces, 
Your  hands  busy  working  withal. 


326 


from  Tennessee 


MOLLIE. 

NO  fern-leaf  sprang  from  mountain-moss, 
With  blither  grace  than  Mollie's, 
No  lily  on  the  lake  across 

Had  fairer  face  than  Mollie's. 
And  when  the  lily  lifted  up 
The  bubbling  bubbles  in  her  cup 
From  cut-glass  pools  where  fern-maid's  sup, 
She  drank  a  health  to  Mollie. 

No  wild-sloe  hid,  'neath  tan  and  red, 

A  ruddier  blush  than  Mollie's, 
No  wild-rose  held  a  queenlier  head 

Where  sang  the  thrush  than  Mollie's. 
And  when  the  red-thrush  saw  the  maid— 
A  glint  of  glory  down  the  glade — 
He  sang  his  sweetest  serenade, 

A  serenade  for  Mollie. 

No  muscadine  peeped  from  her  vine 
With  saucier  eyes  than  Mollie's. 

No  wild-bee  sought  her  globes  of  wine 
With  softer  sighs  than  Mollie's, 

For  when  she  sighed,  and  I  did  make 

Me  bold,  a  trembling  kiss  to  take, 

I  saw  them  all — wine,  roses,  lake — 
All  in  the  eyes  of  Mollie. 
327 


Songs  and  Stories 


O  VOICES  THAT  LONG  AGO  LEFT  ME. 

O  VOICES  that  long  ago  left  me, 
O  eyes  that  were  long  ago  bright, 
How  often  you  come  when  the  shadows 

Creep  into  the  eyes  of  the  night, 
When  the  moon-misted  shadow  encloses 

The  sorrow-starred  eyes  of  the  night — • 
With  you  in  a  wreathing  of  roses 
And  rhymed  in  the  laughter  of  light. 

O,  voices  that  long  ago  left  me, 

O,  eyes  that  were  long  ago  bright, 
Why,  why  do  you  come  with  the  shadows 

And  why  do  you  not  with  the  light — 
In  the  sun-shimmer'd  glory  of  olden, 

In  the  sun-silvered  sweetness  of  light? 
Have  you  learned  that  our  tears  become  golden 

When  merged  with  the  music  of  flight  ? 

Then  lead  me,  dear  voices  that  left  me, 

And  bring  me,  dear  eyes  that  were  bright, 
To  that  home  where  you  now  dwell  forever, 

To  that  land  where  there  never  is  night — 
To  that  love-ling'ring  land  where  the  portal 

Knows  naught  of  the  shadow  of  night, 
And  the  wreathing  of  roses  immortal 

Is  rhymed  with  the  laughter  of  light. 
328 


from  Tennessee 


A  RAY  FROM  CALVARY. 

O  CHRISTMAS,  happy  Christmas,  in  the 
days  that  bring  their  cheer, 

One  thought  amid  the  centuries  grows  brighter 
every  year : 

That  not  alone  for  man  was  made  the  sweet- 
ness of  thy  birth, 

And  not  alone  for  him  was  decked  the  holly- 
wreathed  earth, 

But  all  that  on  Him  doth  depend,  like  Him  might 
blessed  be, 

And  catch  the  reflex  of  that  ray  that  fell  from 
Calvary. 


u 


MARJOR1E. 

P  in  the  hills  of  Tennessee 

Lives  Marjorie — sweet  Marjorie. 

There  ain't  a  bird  but  stops  his  song 
When  down  the  lane  she  rides  along- 
Stops  his  sin,Lrnv  just  to  stare 
And  won  Jer  where  she  got  that  hair 
So  deeply  golden,  floatin'  there  ! 
And  why  her  eyes  ain't  baby  blue 
329 


Songs  and  Stories 

Instead  of  twilight  beamin'  through  ? 
(For  birds  do  know  a  thing  or  two  !) 
They  know  that  wavy,  rosy  flout 
Of  sunset  tress  in  dreamy  rout 
Should  have  some  sky  of  blue  about. 
But  when  them  eyes,  full  to  the  brim 
Of  stars  and  love,  look  up  at  them, 
And  daylight  blush  o'er  cheek  is  spread 
From  cheeks  just  pulped  to  melon  red, 
And  o'er  that  sweet  dream  face  is  bom 
The  light  that  kind  o'  comes  with  morn, 
They  ketch  their  breaths  and  sing  away — 
She's  turned  their  eve  to  break  o'  day  ! 

Up  in  the  hills  of  Tennessee 
Lives  Marjorie — brave  Marjorie. 

Loud  boomed  the  Harpeth,  as  adown 
She  rode  like  mad  to  Franklin  town. 
The  Judge's  daughter — the  county's  star — 
(For  years  I'd  worshiped  her  afar  !) 
"  Too  high  in  life,"  they  whispered  me, 
"  To  look  with  favor,  lad,  on  thee." 
But  love  will  climb  to  star  itself — 
What  careth  it  for  worldly  pelf  ? 
The  Judge  was  stricken  ;  to  the  ford, 
A  keen  plum  switch  for  stingin'  goad, 
Her  saddle  mare  like  mad  she  rode  ! 
Forgetting  flood  and  angry  wave 
She  spurred — her  father's  life  to  save  ! 
(Alas,  her  own  she  all  but  gave.) 
33° 


from  Tennessee 

Plowin'  that  day  on  the  horse-shoe  side, 

I  stopped  when  I  saw  her  frantic  ride. 

I  rushed  where  the  tall  creek  willows  grow — 

Where  the  swirling  waters  roared  below — 

I  waved,  I  beckoned,  shouted— all 

Were  lost  in  the  lashing  water's  fall  ! 

I  saw  the  mare  swept  from  her  feet, 

I  saw  an  emptied  saddle  seat. 

I  plunged — what  cared  I  for  the  roar, 

Born,  as  I  was,  on  the  Harpeth  shore  ? 

What  to  me  was  my  burden  frail, 

I,  who  could  lift  a  cotton  bale  ? 

Did  e'er  an  arm  that  had  tossed  the  wheat 

Hold  before  a  bundle  so  sweet  ? 

But  Harpeth  was  mad  as  a  frenzied  colt, 
And  shot  his  flood  like  a  thunderbolt. 
The  big  waves  swept  with  giant  scorn, 
And  once  I  thought  we  both  were  gone  ! 
Did  she  know  it,  then,  when  a  kiss  I  brushed 
On  cheek  that  e'en  in  the  waters  blushed  ? 
Did  she  hear  the  words  of  love  I  said  ? 
(I  couldn't  help  it — I  thought  she  was  dead  !) 
Struggling,  battling,  I  landed,  but  could 
Not  meet  her  eyes — she  understood. 
''I'm    safe,"   she  said,   and    my  hand    she 

took, 

(And  gave  me  one,  just  one  love  look,) 
"  iNow  mount  your  horse,  for  the  doctor  ride  ; 
Save  my  father  and — I'm  your  bride  !" 
331 


Songs  and  Stories 

Up  in  the  hills  of  Tennessee 
Lives  Marjorie  —  dear  Marjorie. 

You  can't  climb  up  that  tall  hill  there 
And  look  way  clown  that  valley  fair, 
But  what  your  gaze  will  rest  on  ground 
That's  mine  —  all  mine  —  for  miles  around. 
That  Jersey  herd,  that  bunch  of  mares, 
Them  frisky  colts  with  all  their  airs, 
That  Southdown  flock  in  yonder  dell, 
Followin'  the  tinklin'  wether-bell, 
Them  barns  and  paddocks  gleaming  white, 
That  home  shut  in  with  God's  own  light, 
And  all  them  fields  of  wheat  and  corn 
That  sweep  clear  down  to  Amberhorn. 
I  earned  'em  all  —  no  gamblin'  tricks, 
But  hones'  work  and  tellin'  licks. 

But  best  of  all,  'twixt  you  and  me, 
That  girl  is  mine  —  my  Marjorie  ! 


BLUE    JAY. 

OTHE  world  is  all  against  you,  Blue  Jay, 
,     Blue  Jay  ; 

O,  the  world  is  all  against  you  now,  I  say, 
With  your  tweedie,  tweedle,  tweedle, 
And  your  jay  !  jay  !  jay! 
332 


from  Tennessee 

And  your  saucy,  whistling  wheedle 

Just  before  you  fly  away 
To  pounce  down  on  the  juciest  and  the  sweetest 

roasting  ear  ; 
To    steal    the    ripest  Concords    in  the  sunshine 

purpling  near  ; 
To  run  off  all  the  song-birds  with  your  blust'ring, 

bragging  tongue, 
And  break  the  hearts  of  mother  birds  by  eating 

up  their  young — 
Then  to  perch  up  on  the  highest  limb  upon  the 

apple  tree 

And    call    up    mourners  'round    you    with    your 
tweedle,  tweedle,  twee'  ! 

You're  a  robber,  robber,  robber, 

Blue  Jay,  Blue  Jay, 
And  a  hypocrite  and  bully, 
As  all  the  world  doth  say. 

O,  the  world  is  all  against  you,  Blue  Jay,  Blue 

Jay  ; 

O,  the  world  is  all  against  you  now,  I  say, 
But  your  tweedle,  tweedle,  tweedle, 

And  your  jay  !  jay  !  jay  ! 
And  your  saucy,  laughing  wheedle 

Brought  again  to  me,  to-day, 
The  time  we  stole  together,  in  the  summer  long 

ago, 

The  cherries  and  the  peaches  and  the  grapes  of 
purple  glow. 


Songs  and  Stories 

The  day  we  climbed  the  chestnut  for  the  yellow 

hammer's  nest, 
And    you    gave    it    up,   disconsolate,   because    I 

robbed  the  best ! 
And  I  see  the  old  home  once  again,  the  fig  trees 

in  the  sun, 

While  a  boy  slips  all  around  them  with  a  single- 
barrel  gun, 

And  he  brings  it  to  his  shoulder  as  he  sees  a  bob- 
bing head — 

Bang  !  and  he's  a  murderer — for  old  Blue  Jay  is 
dead  ! 

Was  I  a  robber,  robber, 

In  the  summer  long  ago, 
When  I  barbecued  and  ate  you 
With  my  sportsman's  pride  aglow  ? 

Ah,  some  grown-up  folks  are  like  you,  Blue  Jay, 

Blue  Jay  ; 

Ah,  some  grown-up  folks  are  like  you  now,  I  say — 
For  they  tweedle,  tweedle,  tweedle, 

When  they  wish  to  have  their  way, 
And  they  wheedle,  wheedle,  wheedle, 

In  their  tricks  of  trade  to-day, 
And  they  pounce  upon  their  fellow-man  and  steal 

his  very  best — 

Hi>  eggs  of  reputation,  and  his  cherries — happi- 
ness, 

And  you'll   find    their  crops    distended  with  the 
plunder  they  have  won, 
334 


from  Tennessee 

While  their  tongues  are  shooting  slander  (ah,  'tis 

•  worse  than  any  gun), 
And  they  thrive  and  fill  and  fatten  till  they  go 

to  get  their  due 

In    another    world— Oh,  Blue    Jay,  won't  they 
make  a  barbecue  ? 

Then  sing  away  your  robber  song 

Of  jay  !  jay  !  jay  ! 
Till  some  robber  mortal  comes  along 
And  sees  himself  to-day. 


SUCCESS. 

the  coward  who  quits  to  misfortune, 
1       'Tis  the  knave  who  changes  each  day, 
'Tis  the  fool  who  wins  half  the  battle, 
Then  throws  all  his  chances  away. 

There  is  little  in  life  but  labor, 

And  to-morrow  may  find  that  a  dream  ; 

Success  is  the  bride  of  Endeavor, 
And  luck — but  a  meteor's  gleam. 

The  time  to  succeed  is  when  others, 
Discouraged,  show  traces  of  tire, 

The  battle  is  fought  in  the  homestretch—- 
And won — 'twixt  the  flag  and  the  wire  ! 
335 


Songs  and  Stories 


WHEN  THE  COLTS  ARE  IN  THE  RING. 

(As  Riley  would  see  it.) 


o. 


THE  fair  time,  the  rare  time,  I  can  feel  it 

',     in  the  air, 
As  we  take  our  brimming  baskets  and  go  out  to 

see  the  fair  ; 
The  lasses  decked  with  ribbons    red,  the  colts 

with  ribbons  blue — 
What  a  trial  for  the  gallant  lads  to  choose  between 

the  two  ! 
No   season   of   old   mother  earth   can  half  such 

blessings  bring 
When  the  bloom  is  on  the  maiden  and  the  colts 

are  in  the  ring. 

O,  the  beauty  of  the  bonnie  curls — the  rapture  of 

the  race  ! 
O  !    the   maiden  with  the  pretty  foot — the  filly 

that  can  pace ! 
The  one  in  russet   harness  with  a  halter  I  can 

hold, 
But  the  other's  got  me  harnessed  in  her  wavy 

hair  of  gold. 
O,   the  autumn  time   is  full  of  joy  and   every 

goodly  thing, 

336 


from  Tennessee 

When  the  bloom  is  on  the  maiden  and  the  colts 
are  in  the  ring. 

O,  the  fair  time,  the  rare  time,  when  the  Jer- 
seys set  the  pace 

In  a  sheen  of  silken  colors  and  a  skin  of  chrome 
lace, 

And  the  Berkshires  tie  their  tails  up  in  a  lovely 
Psyche  knot, 

And  the  Shorthorns  and  the  Shropshires  and 
Southdowns  make  it  hot. 

"I  wouldn't  live  here  always,"  is  the  doleful 
song  they  sing, 

Who  never  loved  a  maiden  while  the  colts  were 
in  the  ring. 

O,  the  fair  time,  the  rare  time,  in  our  life  a  ver- 
dant spot, 

When  the  people  are  all  jolly  and  their  trials  are 
forgot ; 

And  1  sit  and  muse  in  fancy  to  the  days  so  long  ago 

When  I  sparked  my  little  sweetheart  out  to  see 
the  County  show. 

Since  then  old  Time  has  made  me  dance — to-day 
I'll  make  him  sing, 

For  the  bloom  is  on  the  maiden  and  the  colts  are 
in  the  ring. 


Songs  and  Stories 


FAIR  TIMES  IN  OLD  TENNESSEE. 

FAIR  time  in  ole  Tennessee,  clays  jes'  to  yer 
makin', 

Nights  so  cool  an'  crispy,  jes'  the  kind  for  'pos- 
sum shakin', 

Mornin's  bright  wid  sun  an'  light  of  frosty  dew 
an'  flashy, 

Weather  jes'  the  kind  to  make  the  little  nigger 
ashy  ! 

Bacon  in  de  rafters,  sorghum  mills  er  grindin' 
sweetin', 

Punkins  in  de  hay  loft  an'  religun  in  de  meetin'  ! 

Fair  time  in  ole  Tennessee,  ebery  body  gwine, 
Wagginsfull  o'pritty  gals,dair  ribbons  jes'  a-flyin', 
Pikes  jes'  full  o'  people,  an'  de  woods  jes'  full  o' 

niggers 
A-leadin'  ob  de  pacin'  colts  wid  marks  down  in 

de  figgers. 
Hoss    an'    jack    an'    jinny    an'    Jersey    bull,    all 

gwineter 
Git  dar,  'kase  deys  brudders  to  dat  good  ole  hoss, 

Hal  Pinter  ! 

Fair  time  in  ole  Tennessee,  ebery  body  stirrin' — • 
Cl'ar  de  road,  dair  comes  er  fool  a'whippin'  an' 
a'spurrin'  ' 

338 


from  Tennessee 

Look  out   dair  yo'  nigger,   Julius  Sezer  Andrer 

Asker  ! 
Lead  dat  pesky  jack  erside  and  let  dis  Hal  boss 

pass,  suh  ! 
Dun  fergot  your  raisin',  eh  ?     Fust  thing  dat  you 

kno',  suh, 
You  think  de  State  ob  Tennessee  dun  drap  on 

you,  fer  sho',  suh  ! 

Fair  time  in  ole  Tennessee,  all  de  niggers  dancin', 
All  de  bosses  in  de  ring  a-pacin'  an'  a-prancin', 
White  folks  drinkin'  lemonade  jes'  lak  it  was  col' 

water, 
Nigger  drinkin'  'simmon  beer,  de  drink  he  allers 

orter, 
Nights  jes'  full  er  moonlight  wid  de  darkey's  heel 

a-flyin'— 
Lord,  when  I  die,    jes'  take  me  whar  a  fair  is 

allers  gwine  ! 


THE  RABBIT  TRAP. 

DOWN  in  de  sage  fiel',  settin'  in  de  sno', 
I    looks  from  de  winder  an'  I  sees  whut 
is  lef 

Uv  er  rickety  rabbit  trap,  whar  de  tall  weeds  bio', 

An'  little  Phil  made  it  by  his  own  little  se'f. 

339 


Songs  and  Stories 

He   cut   de  pine    sticks,  an'  he   bent   de  peach 

bow, 
An'  he  whittled  out  de  triggers  wid  his  Barlo' 

blade, 

Den  he  slip  off  by  hissef  jes'  es  sly  as  he  cud  go, 
An'  sot  it  by  de  big  stump  in  de  shugar  glade. 

An'  he  laf  an'  he  played  twell  de  big  red  moon 
Riz  frum  de  medder,  an'  dey  tole  'im  "cum 

ter  bed." 
But  he  said  :  "  Daddy  Wash,  you  must  wake  me 

mighty  soon, 

Fur  I'm  gwinter  ketch  Brer  Rabbit,  sho', — an' 
you  may  have  his  head." 

Po'  little  Phil  !     Ole  Marster's  lastes'  chile, 
An'  me  an'  Dinah  nussed  'im  an'  we  loved  'im 

lak  our  own, 
Wid  sunlight  allers  in  his  heart  and  moonlight  in 

his  smile — 

But  dey  am  sot  foreber  now  and  lef  us  here 
ter  moan. 

Fur  dey  saunt  fur  me  quick  dat  night  'bout  'leben, 
An'  de  white  folks  was  cryin'  'round  er  little 

trundle-bed  ; 
"  Daddy  Wash,"  sed  po'  little  Phil,  "  I'm  gwinter 

up  to  Heaben, 

But  you  must  watch  my  rabbit  trap  whilst  I'm 
dead." 

340 


from  Tennessee 

Down  in  de  grabe  yard  whar  de  cedars  bio' 
1  looks  frum  de  winder  an'  my  tears  fall  ergain, 

Fur  I  sees  er  little  grabe  dar,  out  in  de  sno', 
An'  little  Phil  sleeps  in  de  sleet  an'  de  rain. 


"HUNTIN'  O'  THE  QUAIL." 

DID  you  ever  go  a-huntin'  on  a  crisp  Novem- 
ber morn, 
When  the  frost  had  hung  his  laces  on  the  locust 

and  the  thorn, 
When  the  air  was  like  a  tonic  an'  the  sky  was 

like  a  tone, 
An'  a  kind  o'  huntin'  fever  seemed  a  burnin'  in 

your  bone  ? 
O,  the  music  in  the  clatter  as  you  canter  to  the 

fiel's! 
O,  the  echo  in  the  patter  of  the  dogs  upon  your 

heels  ! 
What  a  picture  for  a  painter  when  the  setters 

make  a  stand 

While  that  dreamy  gleamy  silence  seems  to  settle 
on  the  land  ! 

Are  you  ready,  boys  ? 

""—Ready  !" 
(Click  !  click  !  click  !) 
Come,  steady,  dogs  ! 

"—Steady!" 
(Click  !  click  !  click  !) 


Songs  and  Stories 

Then  'tis  whir-ir-ir-ir  ! 

Bang  !     Bang  !     Bang  ! 
An'  'tis  whir-ir-ir-ir  ! 

Bang  !     Bang  !     Bang ! 
An'  your  heart  jumps  like  a  rabbit  tho'  you  didn't 

touch  a  tail — 

Still,  you'd  like  to  live  forever — just  a-huntin'  o' 
the  quail  ! 

Did  you  ever  stop  for  luncheon  on  a  bright  No- 
vember noon, 
Where  the  pines  were    lispin'  lullabies  an'  the 

winds  were  all  a-croon, 
Where  a  spring  was  just  a-singin'  an'  a-dandn' 

down  a  hill, 
An'  you  tapped  the  tank  where  Nature  runs  her 

everlastin'  still  ? 
How  the  beaten  biscuits  fade  beneath  the  fervor 

of  your  kiss  ! 
How  the  sandwiches  are  laid  beneath  a  blightin' 

that  is  bliss  ! 
What   an   appetite  for  eatin'  you    discover   you 

have  got — 

O,  wouldn't  you  be  champion  were  you  half  as 
good  a  shot  ? 

Are  you  ready,  boys  ? 

"—Ready  !" 
(Tap,  tap,  tap  !) 
Are  you  steady,  boys  ?) 

'"—Steady  !" 
(Tap,  tap,  tap  !) 
342 


from  Tennessee 

Then  'tis  guggle,  guggle,  guggle,  guggle  ! 

Pop  !     Pop  !     Pop  ! 
An'  'tis  google,  google,  google,  google  ! 

Pop  !     Pop  !     Pop  ! 
'Till  you  toss  away  the  bottle  as  you  would  a 

twice-told  tale — 

O,  ain't  it  just  too  fine  a  sport ! — this  huntin'  o' 
the  quail  ? 

Did  you  ever  come  from  huntin'  on  a  sweet  No- 
vember eve, 
When  the  sun  was  sorter  sorry  such  a  dreamy  day 

to  leave, 
When  your  heart  was  like  a  feather,  an'  your  bag 

was  like  a  lead, 

An'  the  liltin'  of  a  lark  was  like  a  vesper  over- 
head ? 
An'  you  found  a  poem  strayin'  an'  a-swayin'  on 

the  gate 
While  she  chides  you  for   a-stayin'  with  Diana 

out  so  late  ! 
O,  of  course  you   stop  to  greet   'er  an'  to  give 

'er  half  your  birds — 

Ev'ry  poem  has  a   meter  so  you  meet  'er  with 
these  words  : 

Do  you  love  me,  Susie  ? 

" — Love  you  !" 
(Kiss,  kiss,  kiss  !) 
Will  you  wecl  me,  Susie  ? 

"—Wed  you  !" 
(Bliss,  bliss,  bliss  !) 


Songs  and  Stories 

Then  'tis  \vhir-ir-ir-ir  ! 

(Your  heart,  yo/_ir  heart,) 
An'  'tis  whir-ir-ir-ir  ! 

(Her  heart,  her  heart,) 
Just  a-flutterin'  like  a  covey  with  Cupid  on  their 

trail— 

O,  it   beats  all  kind    o'   huntin'  when  you  bag 
that  kind  o'  quail  ! 


WHEN  DE  FAT  AM  ON  DE  POSSUM. 

ODE  glory  ob  de  fall  days,  de  bes'  ob  all  de 
year, 
Wid  de  smoke  a  curlin'   up'ard    in   de   mornin' 

crisp  an'  clear  — 
When   de  days  cum  brimmin'  ober  wid  de  soft 

an'  meller  light, 
An'  pollertics  an'  'ligyum  both  ergwine  day  an' 

night  ! 
O  I  don'  want  no  better  times  den  dese  my  life 

to  fill, 
When  de  fat  am  on  de  possum  an'  de  taters  in 

de  hill  ! 

O  de  glory  ob  de  fall  days  —  O  de  splendor  ob  de 

morn  — 
When  de  hills  an'  valleys  echo  wid  de  hunter's 

tuneful  horn, 

344 


from  Tennessee 

When  de  yaller  gal  braid  up  her  ha'r  an'  sets  out 

in  de  sun, 
An'  de  fat  shoat  in  de  beechwood  snort  an'  whirl 

eroim'  an'  run  ! 
You  may  talk  erbout  yer  Promused  !an'  —  I'\-e  got 

it  at  my  wish 
When  de  brown  am  on  de  possum  an'  de  taters 

in  de  dish  ! 

Sum  say  dis  am  a  wicked  wurl  an'  full  ob  sin  an' 

shame, 
Dat  frenship's  but  er  holler  soun'  an'  love  am 

but  er  name, 
Dat  all   de  men  am  liars  yit  an'  all  de  women 

false, 
Wid  death  an'  taxes  allers  heah  to  make  us  rise 

and  waltz. 
Dat  mebbe  so  —  one  t'ing  I  kno'  —  it  nebber  seems 

to  be 
When  de  taters  in  de  possum  —  an'  de  possum  am 

in  me  ! 


LITTLE  SAM. 

LO,  de  cabin's  empty, 
De  chilluns  all  am  gohn, 
De  jimsun  weed  gro'  'roun'  de  do', 

De  grass  dun  tuck  de  cohn, 
De  fiah  am  turned  to  ashes, 
De  hoe-cake's  col'  an'  clam  ; 
345 


Songs  and  Stories 

I  wants  ter  go  to  de  Master  now — 
He  tuck  po'  little  Sam. 

Po'  little  Sam,  dat  played  erroun'  de  do', 

Dat  wake  me  in  de  mohnin'  when  de  chickens 

'gin  ter  cro', 
De  Marster's  royal  cherriut  cum  down  wid  steeds 

ob  flame, 
He  had  ten  million  angels  but  he  wanted  mine  de 

same. 

His  coffin  wus  er  ole  pine  box, 

(Po'  little  lonesome  waif !) 
Whut  matter  whar  de  col'  clay  am, 

Jes'  so  de  soul  am  safe. 
I  gethered  cotton  blossums, 

'Twus  all  de  flowers  1  hed — 
Lak  him,  gohn  in  de  mohnin' 

Befo'  de  dew  wus  shed. 

Po'  little  Sam,  dat  played  erroun'  de  do', 

No  more  I'll  heah  him  call  me  when  de  chickens 

'gin  to  cro', 
De  Marster's  royal  cherriut  cum  down  wid  steeds 

ob  flame, 
He  had  ten  million  angels  but  he  wanted  mine  de 

same. 

Lo,  my  heart  am  empty, 

My  life  hopes  dey  am  fled, 
Jes'  cut  dis  ole  dry  tree  down,  Lord, 

De  moss  am  on  its  head — 
346 


from  Tennessee 

Why  should  de  ole  man  sorrow  heah 

Sence  you  tuk  little  Sam  ? 
Jes'  let  me  be  thy  servant,  Lord, 

In  de  manshun  whar  he  am  ! 

Po'  little  Sam,  dat  played  erroun'  de  do', 

Sum    mohn'    I'll    heah    him    call    me    when    de 

chicken  'gin  to  cro', 
An'  den   de  Marster's  cherriut  will  take  me  es 

I  am, 
Will    take  dis   po'  ole    nigger   home,  to    be  wid 

little  Sam. 


LETTIE. 

LETTIE  —  she  lives  in  Orchard  Room, 
An'  the  Square  he  lives  near  by. 
Orchard  Room  is  a  world  of  bloom, 

An'  Lettie  —  she's  its  sky  ! 
A  valley  of  blossoms  an'  rose-perfume, 
An'  Lettie's  the  rose  —  O,  my  ! 

Her  cheeks,  she  stole  frum  the  peaches 

Thet  dimples  an'  pinks  in  the  sun, 
Her  lips,  frum  the  cherries  ;  her  eyes  —  black- 

berries ; 

Her  laugh,  frum  the  brooks  thet  run. 
Her  soul  !  —  an  angel  drapt  it  onc't 
'Bout  the  time  her  life  begun. 
347 


Songs  and  Stories 

The  Square  bed  saunt  his  message, 

An'  hit  created  a  stir  ! 
He  was  "  gwine  ter  marry  Lettie 

Or  else  know  the  reason  fur  " 
Rich,  an'  he'd  buried  fo'  good  wives — 

Now  he  wanted  to  bury  her ! 

I  stopped  Old  Kate  in  the  furrer  ; 

I  mounted  an'  rode  erway, 
I  b'leeves  in  sowin'  to-morrer 

When  I  kno'  I  can  reap  to-day, 
An'  trouble — I  never  will  borrer — 

When  I  orter  be  makin'  hay  ! 

Down  by  the  spring  she  was  churnin' 
Her  calico  tucked  to  her  knees, 

Her  cheeks  all  flushed  an'  a  burnin', 
Her  hair  flung  out  to  the  breeze. 

I  looked — an'  I  felt  my  heart  turnin' 
To  butter — an'  then  ergin  inter  cheese  ! 

I  rode  to  the  fence  beside  her, 

My  heart  went  flippetty-flop, 
'T  was  churnin'  up  champagne  cider 

An'  sody  an'  ginger  pop  ! 
Old  Kate  hed  nuthin'  ter  guide  her 

An'  she  nacherly  cum  to  er  stop. 

"O,  Lettie,"  I  said,  "my  darlin', 
Will  you  marry  the  old,  fat  Square  ? 
348 


from  Tennessee 

His  heart  —  hit's  es  cold  as  his  gizzard— 
His  soul  —  hit's  es  scarce  es  his  hair  ! 

O,  Lettie,  sweet,  why  would  the  wild  fawn 
Mate  with  the  polar  bear  ?" 

She  ducked  her  head  (it  was  takin'), 
"  O,  Lettie,  my  heart  you'll  bust  ! 

Will  you  really  marry  that  bac'n  ?" 

"Yes,"—  slyly—  "Zeke,  'spec  I  must!" 

"O,  Lettie,  my  darlin',  why  will  ye  ?" 
"  Cause  —  cause  —  you  didn't  ax  me  fust  !" 

I  grabbed  her  there  an'  I  kissed  her, 

Kissed  her  over  the  fence, 
An'  I  got  me  a  preacher,  Mister  — 

An'  the  Square  ain't  seed  her  sence  ! 
Fur  he's  up  at  his  house,  in  the  attic, 

An'  they  say  he's  a  raisin'  a  stir 
A-nussin'  his  gout  an'  rheumatic- 

While  I'm  —  wal,  I'm  a-nussin'  her  ! 


THE  OLD  PLANTATION. 

OI'M  sick  an'  tired  an'  lonely, 
,     An'  I'd  give  the  worP,  if  only 
could  see  the  ole  plantation  where  I  played  so 

long  ago. 

See  the  willers  —  swishin',  swishin'  — 
In  the  creek  —  jes'  right  for  fishin'- 
349 


Songs  and  Stories 

Hear  the  tinkle  of  the  cow-bell  in  the  medder  jes' 

below, 

An'  to  lay  there,  blinkin',  blinkin', 
In  the  hazy  sun,  an'  thinkin' 
Of  the  batty-cakes  fur  supper,  with  the  berries 
1  an'  the  cream, 

Of  the  batty-cakes  an'  berries  that  would  vanish 
like  a  dream. 

O,  I'm  sick  an'  tired  an'  lonely, 
An'  I'd  give  a  hoss  if  only 
I  could  drink  ergin  the  buttermilk  I  drunk  so  long 

ago, 

In  the  dairy,  cool  an'  curlin' 
With  the  water  'round  it  purlin' 
An'  the  white-wash  walls  a-shinin'  in  a  microbe- 

killin'  glow, 

Jes'  to  drink  there,  sorter  dreamy, 
Eatin'  hoe-cake,  crisp  an'  creamy, 
With  the  smell  of  fryin'  batty-cakes   upon  the 

evenin'  air — 

Fryin'    batty-cakes    an'    bacon    floatin'    on    the 
evenin'  air. 

O,  I'm  sick  an'  tired  an'  lonely, 
But  I'd  walk  a  state  if  only 
I  could  walk  in  on  the  ole  folks  that  I  loved  so 

long  ago, 

On  the  mother,  knittin',  knittin', 
An'  the  father  smokin',  sittin' 
35° 


from  Tennessee 

Where  the  sun-beams  loved   to   flicker  an'  the 

moon-beams  loved  to  flow, 
Jes'  to  set  there,  noddin',  \vinkin', 
Full  of  batty -cakes  an'  thinkin' 
'Bout  time  to  kiss  'em  good-night  now,  an'  lay 

me  down  to  sleep — 

Kiss  'em  good-night  now  forever — an'  then  lay 
me  down  to  sleep. 


RECONCILIATION. 

OUT  from  the  meadow,  bathed  in  bright- 
Bob—Bob—White  ! 
An  answer,  back  from  the  cool  copse-height- 

Bob— White  ! 

The  humdrum  beetle  drones  his  horn, 
The  cradling  breezes  lull  the  corn, 
But  still  that  truant  call  goes  on — 

Bob— Bob— White! 
And  back  with  keen  Xantippe  scorn — 

Bob— White  ! 

Out  from  the  meadow's  ling'ring  light — 

Bob— Bob— White  ! 
An  echo,  back  from  the  dark  hill's  height — 

Bob— White  ! 

The  drowsy  night-lids  droop  adown, 
With  ribbon'd  rays  her  ringlets  bound — 
351 


Songs  and  Stories 

And  still  there  echoeth  'round  and  'round — 

Bob— Bob— White  ! 
And  still  from  the  hill  that  haughty  sound — 

Bob— White  ! 

Faintly  now  from  the  copse-hill's  height — 

Bob— Bob— White  ! 
And  fainter  yet,  'mid  the  soft  twilight — 

Bob— White  ! 

Was  that  the  chirruping  sound  of  a  kiss, 
The  star-beam's  dream  of  a  wedded  bliss, 
Or  the  faintest  kind  of  a  call  like  this— 

Thy— Bob— White  ! 
And  the  softest  kind  of  an  answer — 'tis  : 

Quite  right ! 


LONGIN'  FUR  TENNESSEE. 

(A  Lament  from  Yankee  Land.) 

OI'M  longin',  jes'   er  longin'  fur  a  sight  ob 
,     Tennessee, 
Fur  de  cabin  in  de  valley  'neath  de  shady  ellum- 

tree, 
Fur  de  purple  on  de  hill-top,  an'  de  green  upon  de 

plain, 

An'  dat  hazy,   lazy  sweetness   jes'  ter    fill  my 
bones  ergain. 

352 


from  Tennessee 

Do  de  colts  all  cum  a-pacin'  lak  dey  useter  cum 

fur  me  ? 
Do  de  fiel'-lark  sing  es  sweetly  frum  de  shugar- 

maple  tree  ? 
Will  de  chilluns  cum  to  meet  me,  an'  my  wife, 

dat's  dead  an'  gone, 
Will  she  sing,  jes'  lak  she  useter,  in  de  cotton 

an'  de  conn  ? 

O,  chilluns,  I'm  cummin', 
Fur  de  ole  man's  almos'  free, 

An'  I'm  longin',  jes'  er  longin' 
Fur  er  sight  ob  Tennessee. 

O,  I'm  longin',  jes'  er  longin'  fur  er  breath  ob 

Tennessee, 
Fur  de  wind  frum  off  de  mount'in  made  foreber 

fur  de  free, 
Fur  de  lesson  an'  de  blessin'  in  de  blue  sky  up 

erbove, 
An'  de  locus'-blossoms  bloomin'  on  de  grabes  ob 

dem  I  lub. 
Am    de    'possum    still    house-keepin'    'mong   de 

grapes  ob  Bigby  Creek  ! 

An'  young  rnistis — do  she   kerry  still  de  grape- 
bloom  in  her  cheek  ? 
Ken  you  heah  de  sheep-bell  tinkle,  tinkle,  on  de 

blue-grass  hill, 
While   de    water   jine    de    chorus    frum    de   ole 

wheel  at  de  mill  ? 
23  353 


Songs  and  Stories 

Yes,  marster,  dat's  er  fac'  you  say, 

De  ole  man  he  am  free — 
But  I'd  be  er  slave  ergin 

Fur  jes'  er  bref  ob  Tennessee  ! 

O,  I'm  longin',  jes'  er  longin'  fur  er  home  in  Ten- 
nessee, 
Fur  de  cabin  dat  ole  marster  built  fur  Dinah  an' 

fur  me, 
Whar  de  chillun  cum  an'  left  us  lak  de  dew-drap 

leab  de  grass- 
All  withered  up  an'  yearnin'  fur  de  little  things 

dat's  pas'. 
I    kno'  dey  dead — but  still  I   feel  ef  I'd  go  dar 

onc't  mo', 
Mebbe  dey'd  cum  ergin  sum  day  an'  play  befo' 

de  do'. 
Mebbe  my  mammy 'd  cum  ergin  her  little  boy  to 

take 
An'  sing  fur   him  dat  lullerby  from  which  he'd 

never  wake. 

O,  mammy,  I'm  er  cummin', 

Sabe  dat  lullerby  fur  me — 
Fur  I'm  longin',  jes'  er  longin' 

Fur  er  grabe  in  Tennessee. 


354 


from  Tennessee 


WONDERFUL  MEN. 

(To  My  Mother.) 

Truly  a  wonderful  man  was  Caius  Julius  Ccesar. 

—Longfellow. 

TRULY  a  wonderful    man    was    Caius  Julius 
Csesar, 
Strong  his  will  as  his  sword  and  both  of  Damas- 

can  mettle, 
Wonderful  in  his  wars,  more  wonderful  yet  in  his 

writings, 
Firm    his   words  and    quick    as   the   tramp  of  a 

Roman  legion, 
Grand  his  thoughts  and  high  as  his  standard,  the 

Roman  eagle. 

Whether  'mid  gloomy  woods,  facing  a  foe  bar- 
baric, 
Seizing  a  shield  and  a  sword  to  turn  the  Nervian 

torrent, 
Or  'mid  Thessalonian  plains  sweeping  Pompeian 

forces, 
Or  guiding  with  wisdom's  reins  the  greatest  of  all 

the  nations, 
Always  the  wonderful  man — Caius  Julius  Cassar. 

And  yet,  O  wonderful  man,  O  wonderful  Julius 
Caesar. 


Songs  and  Stories 

In  all  your  wonderful  works  no  mention  is  made 

of  your  mother, 
In  all  your  wonderful  fights,  you  made  no  fight 

for  woman  ! 
And  know  you,  wonderful  man,  imperious  Julius 

Caesar, 

From  whom  your  wonderful  nerve  and  wonder- 
ful heart  for  battle  ? 
'Twas  she  who  flinched  not  beneath  the  cruel 

knife  of  the  surgeon, 
Fighting  a  battle  for  you,  grander  than  Gaul's  or 

Egypt's, 
Bringing  you  into  the  world  and  moulding  you  in 

her  likeness, 
Stamping  your  soul  with  fire  and  stamping  your 

mind  with  greatness. 

And   truly   a   wonderful    man    was    Cicero,   the 

orator, 
Pure  his  words  and  free  and  grand  as  a  flowing 

river, 
Lofty  his  flights  and   swift  as   an   eagle  soaring 

upward, 
Showing  to  men  through  the  rift  the  glory  and 

beauty  above  them. 
Clenching  the  wisdom  of  years  he  hurled  it  with 

might  Titanic, 
Yet  tender  even  to  tears  when  a  Roman  life  hung 

on  it. 
Musical  oft  his  words,  as  the  march  of  the  planets 

above  him, 


from  Tennessee 

Now  sweet  as  the  Lesbian  birds,  now  stern  as 
the  shock  of  battle. 

And  yet,  O  wonderful  man,  O  greatest  of  ancient 

speakers, 
In  all  your  wonderful  works  no  mention  is  made 

of  your  mother, 
Of  all  your  speeches  grand,  not  one  was  made 

for  woman  ! 
And    yet  'twas   she   who   gave    you    depth  and 

beauty  and  sweetness, 
The  voice  to  mimic  the  wave,  the  brush  to  paint 

the  lily. 
'Twas  she  who  sowed  in  your  soul  the  seeds  of 

fanciful  flowers, 
Erected  aloft  your  goal  and  gave  you  the  strength 

to  win  it. 

And  O,  a  wonderful  man  was  Horace,  the  lyric 

poet, 
Studding  his  sky  with  stars  and  decking  his  earth 

with  meadows, 
Singing   a    song   to  his  love  while  she    blushes 

adown  the  ages, 
Covering   the  ruins  of   Time  with  the    fadeless 

leaf  of  his  laurel — 
Concealing  the  broken  vase  with  the  immortal 

bloom  of  his  roses. 

And    yet,    O    wonderful    man,    O    sweetest    of 
ancient  poets, 

357 


Songs  and  Stories  from  Tennessee 

Who   gave   you   the   hue   to   paint   the   carmiel 

cheek  of  your  roses, 
Your  lute,  that  sounds  even   now,  through  the 

mellow  twilight  of  ages  ; 
Who  gave  you  the  pure,  true  eye  for  watching 

and  loving  all  nature, 
And   tuned    your   wonderful    lyre  till    old    Time 

stops  to  listen  ? 
A  wonderful    creature   was   she, — a   wonderful, 

wonderful  woman — 
And  yet,  we   ne'er  had  known,  had  we  waited 

your  muse  to  tell  it ! 

O   these   were  wonderful  men,  and  wonderful, 

too,  their  country, 
And  yet  it  has  passed  away,  as  a  bubble  when 

Time  blows  on  it ; 
Passed,  as  they  all  have  passed,  where  might  is 

greater  than  Mother, 
Passed,  as  they  all  have  passed,  where  wife  is 

less  than  mistress, 
Passed,  as  they  all  will  pass,  who  have  no  throne 

for  woman. 


THE   END. 


358 


A    001433213    4 


